


Penitent

by Fyre



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mental Illness, PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Storybrooke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:42:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, when you least expect it, your past sneaks up behind you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I was trying to sleep. Really and truly. And this scene walked straight into my head, no invitation, no warning. Didn't even buy me dinner. Just right in my head and sleep went out the window.
> 
> This looks like it will be chaptered as well, though I suspect it may take a little longer to do. Only 3-4 chapters, hopefully, but knowing my luck, it'll end up epic.

Mr Gold was an early riser.

His house was nothing more than a place to store his goods and to rest. Once roused, he would leave almost as soon as the sun crested the horizon, and more often than not, he would not return until the sky was dark.

His shop was more a home than the large, soulless house. It was the place where all his deals and secrets were gathered, a private treasure trove.

The streets were deserted as he made his way there. It was a moderate walk, and his leg ached each and every day, but in the dawn hours, he liked to bask in the solitude. It was another reason he kept the shop: somewhere that he could be alone, without the constant noise and fuss of the other residents of Storybrooke.

It wasn't an aural noise, but a magical one, a resonance that jarred against his senses. There was the clash of the real and the imaginary, who they had been and who they thought they were now. Sometimes, if he looked carefully, he could see the shimmering outline of their true shapes, and it gave him a headache.

The shop was a refuge away from the madness. Very few people ever disturbed him there, and he cultivated his reputation to ensure it stayed that way.

That was why it came as a surprise when he was assaulted at the entrance.

He was unlocking the front door when he heard the patter of running footsteps, and a moment later, he was slammed up against the door. Something fine and sharp was pressed against his neck, and he knew he was still mortal enough for it to do damage if he struggled.

His assailant pushed against his back in wordless demand, forcing him to open the door and enter. That, he allowed. Better to fight back within his own domain. 

The weapon didn't leave his throat as they stepped into the darkened shop, and he made no move to assist her. It was a woman. He could tell that much from the body that had pressed forcefully against his. Small, thin, practically reeking of terror. He folded his hands around his cane, and waited for her to make a move. If she made them enter the backshop, he knew she was done. There were enough tools to subdue her, and enough shackles and cords to bind her. He even considered presenting her to the Sheriff. A show of good faith. The thought made his lips twitch.

She forced him forward again, the point at his throat threatening to break skin. She was breathing heavily, raggedly, and he was a little curious who in Storybrooke could be so desperate that they would attack him of all people. 

"If you don't mind me saying so, dear," he murmured, taking his time walking forward. "Don't you think this is a foolish idea?"

The woman didn't reply, urging him onward, one hand on his shoulder. Her fingers were bony and thin and dug through the shoulder of his suit like pincers. The curtain separating the front and back of shop was pulled aside, and he was unsurprised when she pushed him towards it. All the better to hide nefarious deeds.

As soon as they entered, even by the dull light, he could see a dozen objects he could use to strike her down. He shifted his feet, directing himself towards them, but the woman was having none of it and forced him towards the empty table. No matter. His cane would serve, if all else failed.

She pushed him down into the chair, and he moved his cane between his hands for better momentum.

The woman stepped into his line of sight, and even as he raised the cane to strike her weapon away, he saw her face.

The cane dropped from his fingers, rattling on the floor.

She was holding a hypodermic needle like a blade. She was wearing ragged clothing that might have been hospital clothing once. Her feet were leaving bloody footprints on the floor. Her hair was tangled and knotted. But her eyes were clear and blue and fixed on him with shocking familiarity.

"Belle?"

She thrust the needle towards his face, baring her teeth, feral.

Gold's world was shaking. She was dead. She had died. There was no coming back from that, no matter what the stories said. And yet, here she was, standing before him, flesh and blood, half-starved.

He placed his hands palm-up on the table, a gesture of peace. His eyes were fixed on her. He couldn't seem to tear them away, even if he wanted to. "Are you hungry?" he asked quietly. It felt like a struggle to even breathe. "There's food."

He saw a flicker in her eyes.

So she understood, at least a little?

He turned one hand, pointed to the refrigerator.

She backed towards it, keeping her eyes on him warily, and crouched down. She flipped the door open. There wasn't much, only some bread and butter, some cold meat, but she fell on it as if she hadn't eaten in days, hunkering over it like an animal. Her eyes remained on him, the needle extended in mute threat.

Gold watched her in silence. His head was spinning. If she was alive, then that meant that the Queen had lied. If the Queen had lied about this, what had become of her? If her clothing was anything to go by, she had been hospitalised, and everyone in town knew that Doctor Whale was safely in Regina's pocket.

He tried to remember to breathe, in and out. The fury could come later, once he understood what the hell was going on. Right now, the woman, the broken, terrified, half-wild creature, in front of him had to be his focus. 

"Don't eat so fast," he said quietly, turning his hands palm down. "If you haven't eaten in some time, you may be ill."

She narrowed her eyes, tearing another piece of bread with her teeth. The fridge was already half-empty, and his words proved prophetic less than ten minutes later, when almost all of what she had eaten returned on her. She gave a small, pitiable moan, clutching her stomach.

Gold pushed the chair back.

The look of terror and panic in her face broke his heart.

Belle was always brave, even in the face of fury and humiliation, and now, here she was, cowering like a broken beast.

He lowered himself onto the floor, close to her, kneeling clumsily on his lame leg. He showed her his hands, bare and empty. "I won't hurt you," he said as gently as he could, through a voice tight with rage and grief. "I want to help you."

The needle was still pointing at him, trembling wildly.

He remembered confronting an injured horse once, badly injured and terrified. It felt the same. The key was to make himself harmless and unthreatening, not something that came easily to him. He spread his hands and he broke eye contact for the first time, lowering his head in submission, showing that she was still in control.

She gave a small, sharp sob, and he heard the needle clatter on the floor. It rolled into his line of sight, but he didn't touch it, didn't take it. If she felt she needed it, she could reclaim it. By leaving it, he was showing her it was her choice. 

There was silence only broken by the gasping ragged breaths of the woman. He didn't move. He didn't know if she did until she edged a little closer to him. She didn't pick up the needle again. He could feel his eyes on her and slowly lifted his head.

She didn't look like he remembered, and yet, she did. He thought his memory of her had changed over time, become more idealised, more a dream of the woman lost, but he was wrong. The eyes were still as blue, the lips still full, the expression still her, but now, her eyes were bloodshot, her lips dry and cracked and striped with blood, her whole frame vibrating with unspoken terror. It was Belle, Belle broken and starved and wretched, the same woman he loved, yet not the same at all.

He extended a hand in front of him, palm up, a wordless offer, a gesture of kindness.

She stared at it, her own hands trembling, shivering in front of her chest like captive birds with their wings clipped.

"I promise I won't hurt you," he said softly. Not again. Not more than he already had.

It felt like the whole world was holding its breath with him, and it was an eternity before her fingers uncurled and she tentatively placed her small hand in his. Her hand was ice-cold, and he could see the nails were bitten to the quick and bleeding. 

He closed his fingers around hers gently, bringing his other hand over to enclose it, warm it, and he offered what he hoped was a comforting smile. 

Blue eyes stared at him, still full of suspicion.

"Here," he said. He released her hand to shed his jacket, which he held out to her. She looked at it in confusion. "You're cold. Please. It'll warm you." When she didn't move, he leaned forward, forcing down his rage and dismay when she flinched from him, and wrapped the coat around her, drawing it closed. "There. Better."

Her small hands peeped out between the lapels, pulling it closer around her, and her head dipped in something that might have been a nod of gratitude.

Gold sat back, gazing at her. The shop was cold and dark, and there was little he could use to tend the wounds he could see. Her feet were bare and bloody, and her arms looked scratched, as if she had been running wild in the woods.

"How would you feel, dear," he asked softly, "about coming to my home?"

She was on her feet, backing away, in a heartbeat.

He raised his hands, level with his chest, palms open. "It's safe there," he said gently. "I can tend your wounds, and we can get you something to eat. Something warm to wear. The shop is too cold and dark for you. You need to be somewhere warm."

She clung to his coat, staring at him.

He picked up the needle, her only weapon, and struggled to his feet. Without his cane, it took a moment to walk towards her. He laid the needle across his palm and held it out to her. "You don't need to be unarmed, dear," he said softly. "If I do anything you disapprove of, you have my permission to do whatever you must."

For a breathless moment, she didn't move, then she reached out and carefully took the needle and put it into one of the pockets.

He nodded. "I'll call us a taxi," he said quietly. "You can sit, if you like."

She searched his face, then limped over to the table and sat, pulling her legs up onto the seat and wrapping herself entirely in his jacket.

He leaned against the wall and limped through to the front of the shop, reaching for the telephone. He didn't intend to call a taxi at all, because the Storybrooke taxi service was notoriously full of gossips. Instead, he dialled a number of someone who owed him a minor favour. Those types were much more discreet.

When he made his way back through to the backshop, Belle looked at him with such resignation that he wished he could use magic to soothe her mind. She lowered her chin to rest on her knees and didn't move until someone rattled at the front door.

"That's our ride, dear," Gold murmured, bending to retrieve his cane.

She fell into step behind him, and he caught a glimpse of her reflection, her head down, her shoulders hunched. She looked, he thought, as if she was expecting betrayal, possibly even expecting the police. When he opened the door and a plain car and bearded old man looked at them, he saw the astonishment on her face. 

She was silent for the duration of the drive, huddling in the back seat of the car. Their driver, Reginald Fisher, asked no questions, though Gold knew the old man was glancing at him out of the corner of his eyes, and was dying to know what was going on. Quite a fitting term, he mused, dying to know. That was why the man knew better than to ask.

The streets were still blessedly quiet when they reached his house, and he opened the door to let Belle out. She stood on the pavement, silent and still, and he leaned down to murmur his appreciation to their driver. A deal concluded, he said, and Fisher looked like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

He didn't look back, not even to check that she was following him, as he went to the door. The house was as quiet as ever, and he paused in the hall long enough to see the silhouette cast through the doorframe as she entered behind him. 

Her hands were in her pockets and she was waiting, watching.

"Take a seat, dear," he murmured. "I'll fetch the first aid box."

It gave him a moment alone in the kitchen, and he propped his cane against the counter, bracing his hands against the polished marble. They were shaking, and for the first time in many years, he felt what it was to be afraid. Afraid that he would go back into the other room, and she would be gone again. Even more afraid that he would go back, and she would still be there, Belle but not.

He heard the sound of a piano key being pressed, and it brought him back to himself.

She was there, she was injured, and he was fannying about in the kitchen like a frightened schoolboy. 

He drew a breath and reached for the kettle, filling it and putting it on to boil. The first aid box, never used, was removed from the cabinet under the sink. By the time he returned to the living room, he could see that Belle had wandered all around the room, leaving a trail of bloody footprints on the floor. She was standing at the window, fingertips pressed to the glass.

"Would you like to sit?" he asked quietly, approaching her. It took some time, as he was carrying a basin of warm water and the first aid box. A towel was draped over one shoulder. "I can tend your feet."

She looked at him blankly for a moment, then sat down carefully on one of the chairs. He knelt at her feet, and remembered a scene almost wholly inverted: a girl in a golden dress with a broken cup, instead of a man with a basin.

"This may sting a little," he warned as he motioned for her to place her feet in the basin of warm, antiseptic-laced water. She winced, but barely whimpered as she lowered one foot, then the other into the basin. 

Gold removed his watch, placing it on the coffee table, then reached into the water to gently wash the dirt and blood from her swollen, injured feet. It struck him, then, that he had never once seen Belle's feet, not without the little buckled shoes she liked so much. They were as small and dainty as he expected, but he could feel grit and splinters and dirt embedded in the soles.

Once or twice, she flinched when his fingers brushed a torn piece of flesh. Finally, he lifted one foot from the water. He draped the towel across the footstool and laid her foot down, then withdrew tweezers from the first aid box. 

She pulled her foot back, staring at him.

"Splinters, dear," he said. "They have to come out or they will fester."

She bit her lower lip, but set her foot back down. He had a deft hand. Years of alchemy ensured it, and he was as careful as could be. Fresh blood trickled here and there, when he tugged free an especially large thorn or shard. He heard her breath catch time and again, and he didn't have to raise his head to know that there were tears running down her face.

He worked patiently, until her foot was clear, then bound it with soft, white bandages and dressings. The second foot received the same treatment, and by the time he was done, his shirt sleeves were stained and bloody and beyond salvation.

Only then, as he wiped his hands, did he look up at her. There were salt tracks on her cheeks, and her lip was bitten through. It must have hurt much more than they both expected.

He gently laid his hands over her bandaged feet. "You were very brave," he said as steadily as he could. "I'm sorry it hurt so much."

Her lips trembled in what might have been a smile, and he felt a pain low in his chest.

He looked down, anywhere but her face, as he pushed himself back to his feet. "Would you like some tea? Something light to eat?" It seemed so trite to be offering such things, when she was clearly hurt and traumatised. He watched the shadow of her nod on the bloodied floor, and with aching steps, he made his way back to the kitchen, the basin trembling between his hands. 

He remembered a time when he had torn apart his treasures because of her. In fury and grief, he had smashed everything around him, all that he had gathered and built over decades, except the one, lonely cup that was the one thing he still had to remind him of her. 

Now, she was back in his life, in his new castle, less dark, but just as vast and imposing, and he wanted to smash everything to pieces, all the irrelevant and pointless objects. It all meant nothing, not when she was right there. He wanted to break something, tear it apart, scream profanities at the world.

But he couldn't, because she was there.

He put the kettle on to boil again, then washed the blood and dirt from his hands. He rinsed out the basin, watching the scarlet liquid swirl away, splinters and dirt caught in the eddies. He scooped clean water in his hands and dashed it on his face, and prayed his head would stop spinning. He didn't know who he prayed to, but he was sure the thought counted.

He wasn't sure if it was guilt or fear that made him linger in the kitchen. No man ever took so long to make such a simple sandwich. 

By the time he returned to the livingroom, she was curled up on the chair, her bandaged feet tucked up inside his coat. Her head was pillowed on her arm, and she was gazing into nothing.

He placed the tray down, and offered her another towel, this one hot and damp, for her sore and dirty hands. She took it gingerly, rubbing her hands together, holding it close, as if to ward away the cold. How long she had been cold, he dreaded to think. She must have been running for days.

"Here," he said, sitting down opposite her. He poured the tea, as he remembered her liking it, adding more sugar than was truly necessary, and offered it to her. "It's warm. It should help."

She took it carefully, cradling as if it were something precious, holding it close between her two little hands. 

"Slowly," he added. "You don't want to be ill again."

She sipped daintily, and for a moment, it was almost like being back where they started. Until he looked at the broken and bloody nails, the bandages, the way her skin stretched taut over the bones of her face and hands. Almost back, but never.

He pushed the plate towards her, watching as she picked it up carefully. She looked smaller, much more fragile, and that wasn't simply because of the weight that had dropped from her already tiny frame.

"Better?" he asked quietly.

Her lips twitched again, not quite a smile, and she nibbled at the sandwich.

He folded his hands together in the hopes it would stop them trembling. It didn't. He watched a little colour returning to her cheeks, barely there, but better than the chalky pallor that made her look so weak. 

"May I ask you a question?" It was rare for him to offer that much of a courtesy. Blue eyes fixed on him, still wary. "Do you have a name? Something I can call you?" Her eyes flicked down, and she stared at the teacup, then shook her head. His fingers tightened together and he heard the knuckles crack. They had even taken that from her? Regina would burn. "Do you know who you are?"

The way she worried her lower lip and avoided his eyes was more than answer enough.

"Do you have somewhere to stay?" he asked, knowing the answer before she even raised her eyes to him and shook her head. His heart was drumming violently against his ribs. This was fear, pure fear, as he had not known it for decades. "Would..." He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. "Would you like to stay here?" He could see the doubt, the suspicion, the fear in her eyes. "Only as my guest, dear. Nothing more."

She was silent, motionless, and looked down at her tea. When she looked up again, he could see the question in her eyes: Why? What's in it for you? What do you want from me?

He offered a brief smile. It was all he could muster around the terror gathered about him. The fear that she might leave, the dread she might stay. "My house is large and empty," he said quietly. "You're alone and hurt. Stay a while, gather your strength, and when you're ready, you can leave." She stared him down, as if awaiting the real reason. He looked down at his hands and confessed quietly, "I think I may be lonely."

She was still for a while, then he heard her sip the tea, and raised his eyes. She was gazing at him, thoughtfully, steadily. In that way, she hadn't changed. The directness of her gaze had always taken his breath away. Most people barely dared to look at him.

She inclined her head. It wasn't a nod, nowhere near as extravagant, but it was assent.

He forced his fingers apart, for fear of snapping them like twigs. "Good," he said. "I'll arrange a room, if you like."

That flicker of a not-quite-smile flitted across her lips again.

"First," he said, rising, stiff-legged, "I should fetch you some clothing." She looked down at his jacket, touching bloodstains she had left on the sleeve. He caught the glimpse of dismay and waved it away at once. "Don't worry, dear. It's only a suit. I have a dozen more like it."

He left her there, wrapped in his jacket, eating and drinking, and made his way painstakingly up the stairs. He returned a short while later and paused on the landing. She had removed his jacket and hobbled to the piano. He could see her fingers trailing across the keys, though never pressing, playing a silent symphony.

He made his way down the stairs carefully. "Do you play?" he asked quietly.

She looked around at him, then lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. One thin finger pressed a key down, then another, and another, the chord hanging in the air.

Gold approached her, setting the bag he was carrying in the windowseat and opening it. "I don't know if they will be to your tastes," he said apologetically. He didn't know why had bought them, years before. They were her size, of course they were. Just as there were clothes that would have fitted Bae, the day he left. Each in their own room. Each neatly shelved. Each untouched for decades.

She slipped from the piano stool and approached, looking at the bag. He opened it for her, to save her damaged fingers. The dresses were simple, pretty and floral, and the kind of things he imagined she would have liked. She touched the fabric, and he saw the tremulous hint of a smile cross her lips again. She raised her eyes to him, questioning.

"Sometimes, people donate to the shop," he lied.

If she disbelieved him, it didn't show.

She drew one of the dresses out, patterned with sunflowers, and held it against her rag-clad body. When she looked up, there was a brightness in her eyes that had been lacking. He couldn't help but smile.

He showed her to the downstairs bathroom, and returned to the kitchen to at least pretend to clear up the dishes. He was making a mistake. A huge mistake. Taking her into his home the first time had been folly enough, but now, with all that was behind them, with all she couldn't remember, with God knew where she had been, it was utter madness. 

He was still scrubbing the same plate, blindly staring at the running water, when he heard the shuffling footfalls.

He turned, and his breath caught. She had found the combs and tamed her hair a little. The dress, though a little large, suited her as he knew it would. She performed an awkward twirl, ruined by her bandaged feet, but the skirt swirled around her. She looked delighted.

"Lovely," he said, around his heart which had somehow moved to his throat.


	2. Chapter 2

The girl who was but wasn't Belle had sought asylum in Gold's house.

It was an unfortunate but appropriate description.

She occupied the guest room on the first storey, the same level as Gold himself. He ensured that her room had a view overlooking the back garden, but hidden from the view of prying eyes. If she had run, as he believed, then the last thing she needed was to be hunted down again. 

She seldom slept, which he knew because - now that she was in his house - he seldom slept either.

He often heard her sobbing, waking from a nightmare, echoing in the hall. She never closed the door, as if she was afraid it would never open again. Her window was always flung wide, even in the windiest and coldest nights. Some little piece of freedom in a world where she closed herself in his home.

Still, he forced himself to pursue his normal routines. Any deviations might arouse suspicions, so each morning, he left the house and went to the shop. What he did there, he could barely recall. It was important, but something much more important was distracting him every moment he was there.

His hours in the shop became shorter, and by degrees, he found himself spending more time in the house that had, until now, felt like nothing but a mausoleum to those he had lost.

It was a strange experience to return home and have someone there to greet him, smiling shyly from the staircase. She was always sitting there when he returned, and he wondered if she took some comfort in being within sight of the door, but also hidden by the ornate banister.

She still didn't speak, but it was apparent that her suspicion of him was diminishing by the day, which both warmed him and also filled him with a sick sense of apprehension. For her to depend on him alone was a terrible fate. She deserved better, far better. It was his fault she was reduced to this, his fault she had been broken over God knew how many years.

He didn't know what she did when he was elsewhere. Sometimes, a book was moved, but for the most part, when he returned to the house, everything looked exactly as it had when he left. He had an eye for such things. 

Most evenings, they would sit in the living room, and he would try to find out what had happened to her. Without verbal response, he was mostly making wild guesses, but some of them hit close on the truth, if her expressions were anything to go by.

"I have an idea," he said, one evening.

Blue eyes looked at him expectantly.

He got up and fetched a book from the shelves: The History of Storybrooke. He didn't know why he felt the need to furnish his house with false history, but he supposed some people had novels, and this was about as fictional as any of them. 

He beckoned the woman to the coffee table and opened the book. It was full of illustrations, the history of their illustrious town, showing many of the most famous and infamous buildings. His shop, fortunately, had escaped notice.

Belle - it was all he could call her, though he could never find the voice to say it aloud - knelt beside him, and her shoulder brushed his knee as she leaned forward to look.

"Perhaps," he suggested quietly, "you can show me where you have been, dear."

Small, thin fingers reached for the book, and he leaned back in the seat. She traced the buildings in each picture, as if memorising them by touch alone, examining them, then turning page after page. He knew the moment she saw something she recognised. The book was shoved away with a violence that almost threw it off the table, and she slammed back against his chair, trembling.

The picture was of Storybrooke's hospital.

He didn't know what possessed him, but his hand - trembling almost as much as her - reached out and touched her hair. She flinched, then curled around, wrapping her arm around his leg and burying her face in his thigh. 

"Hush, dearie, hush," he said, once he managed to find his voice. He wanted to go to the Mayor's house, drag her from her bed and pound her face to messes with his cane. He wanted to see her scream and burn, twisted up in agony. He wanted to take his curse and unravel it around her, take back everything, and leave her naked in the ruin.

It had been horrifying enough to imagine Belle's fate, but now, with confirmation of where she had been, it opened up a new array of possibilities. 

His fingers moved spasmodically on her hair, smoothing the tangled curls. It must have soothed her, because the tremors tearing through her eased a little at a time. He could feel the dampness of tears seeping through the fabric of his trousers.

She looked up at him eventually, and the worry in her expression made his heart clench.

"It's all right, dear," he said. His fingers moved of their own accord, brushing the last tears from her cheeks. "It's all right. You're allowed to be upset." He took a breath. "Was that where you came from?"

She nodded, propping her chin on his thigh. He could feel her arms still wrapped around his calf, her fingers drumming nervously against his leg. 

"Were you there a long time?"

She took a shaky breath, and lowered her chin just a little.

"Could you leave?"

She slanted a look at him, and he didn't need her to shake her head to know that there had been no choice in the matter.

He laid his hand on her head gently and she closed her eyes.

His mind was racing. The fact that there had been no mention of a 'patient' breaking out of the hospital meant that Regina was probably still trying to keep Belle's existence hidden. She probably believed him ignorant of the whole thing, and he expected she had people hunting for the poor woman.

It was just fortunate that the former Sheriff passed away, he mused. Belle wouldn't have stood a chance if the Queen's favourite hunting dog had been on her trail.

When she retreated to bed, he remained in the living room, lost in thought.

In circumstances such as these, information was vital. For nearly three decades, the Queen had managed to hide something from him, and now, he had the task of hiding something from her, when he didn't know how much she knew or what she had been intending. He had no doubt that Belle was to be some kind of pawn, but whether she was in play now, permitted to escape, or genuinely free, he didn't know.

The next morning, he left the house as early as usual, but instead of the shop, he set out in the opposite direction.

He knew he wouldn't be welcome, but in all honesty, he didn't really care. Intelligence was vital, and if he had to do it by intimidation and implication, he was quite happy to do so. And if the bloated fool proved himself to be aware of the whole affair, then Gold knew he would quite happily finish where Sheriff Swan had interrupted him, only weeks before. 

After all, it was not as if the loan had ever been repaid.

He rapped briskly on the door, and was unsurprised when it was not immediately answered. He stood patiently on the porch, gazing at the glass pane in the door. If French looked out, then pretended he wasn't in, Gold knew his cane would shatter the window nicely. 

It was some ten minutes, and another rattle of the knocker, before the door finally opened.

French was still half-asleep, and looked like he had just rolled out of bed. Gold smiled placidly at him and was satisfied to see the man back away.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"We have some unfinished business, Mr French," Gold replied, stepping forward and putting his cane in the way, in case French tried to shut the door. "I can't help noticing that your loan still hasn't been fully repaid, and you seem to be avoiding me." His lips turned up. "I can't imagine why."

The colour drained from French's face. "What do you want?" he asked.

Gold inclined his head. "I would have thought that was fairly obvious," he said. "Or if I can't expect repayment, then new terms." Ha gazed at French. "You know I dislike it when someone tries to break a deal with me."

Reluctantly, French opened the door a little wider. "Come in, then," he said resignedly.

Gold followed the man back into the house. It was a small house, and it was simply-furnished, the house of a bachelor. There were no signs of a feminine touch anywhere, and the florist clearly didn't take his work home with him. 

Gold came up short almost at once, as soon as he stepped into the living room. There was a photograph of Belle, clearly much younger, on the wall. She was in a school uniform, laughing. Another followed, this one with the girl and a bunch of flowers. There were even a few of Moe French and his daughter together. The look on the man's face in the photograph wasn't the expression of a man who would have handed his daughter over to the Queen.

French was standing uneasily in the middle of the floor. "D'you want something to drink?" he offered.

Gold turned, startled. "Pardon?"

"A drink," French offered again. "Tea or coffee or something?"

Gold stared at him blankly for a moment. "Tea," he said. "White. One sugar."

French skirted around him warily and headed through a door into the kitchen, and Gold took a moment to gather his scattered wits. One whole wall was practically a shrine to Belle, photographs of her from infancy through to adolescence. The frames didn't match and some of the pictures were lop-sided or faded, but there was no questioning the simple fact that Moe French loved his daughter. 

It was then that Gold remembered, another time, another place, where French had refused a deal. 

A daughter for saving a Kingdom. That was the usual price, and that was why he had asked for it, but he had been both a little surprised and mildly impressed when Sir Maurice had outright refused. When the lout, Gaston, had interrupted, he was more disappointed, convinced Sir Maurice wanted to keep her for financial gain.

It seemed his impression was incorrect.

French returned a moment later. He was carrying two mugs, both of which had logos that suggested they had been free gifts. No fancy teasets for this man. He held one of them out to Gold in the same way a wary lion tamer would hold out meat to a lion. 

"Your daughter?" Gold asked, inclining his head towards the photographs. The only way he would have missed the grief that crossed French's face was if he had been blindfolded. 

"Adele," the man said, then turned and walked to one of the threadbare chairs. He sat down heavily, and wrapped his hands around the mug.

Gold looked at the wall of pictures again. "I was... unaware you have a child."

"Had," French said quietly. 

Gold glanced at him, the question hanging unspoken in the air.

French looked up at him wearily. "She left," he said. "Ran off years ago. Wanted to see the world. Have adventures." He looked up at the pictures. "Keep hoping she'll come home one day, but I guess the world was too exciting."

Gold could see the shimmer of magic around the man, coating him, twisting the memories he truly had into something unreal and bitter and painful. The curse, Gold realised, was far too efficient. If you loved anyone, they were torn from you, and your memory lied to explain it away.

He limped across to one of the chairs and sat down slowly. 

French was silent, brooding over his own mug. When Gold didn't speak, he finally looked up and asked, "What are the new terms? I can't afford to repay it. I couldn't work for a month after..."

He didn't have to say.

Gold cradled the mug in his hands. He felt the long-forgotten twist of guilt. He'd beaten the man half to death over accusations that had proved to be false. The theft was hardly just cause, not after everything that followed.

He knew the pain of losing a child too well. 

He considered the mug.

It wasn't possible to cancel the loan, not entirely. His reputation was too important for that, but he found himself unwilling to force the man into giving up everything else he had as collateral. 

"Consider, Mr French," he said, "how much you would have made in the month following our... altercation."

French looked at him warily. "Why?"

Gold gazed at him. "I would base the rate of interest against the profit lost," he said. He saw the shock on French's face, and he had to admit he was being overly generous. 

French set down his mug on the floor, clearly afraid he might drop it. "Why?" he asked again.

"I have taken a pound of flesh, Mr French," Gold replied mildly. "It's not as financially viable as I would like, but given the losses incurred by it, I will extend the repayment period of the loan, this once, with a reduced rate of interest based on the losses for the month after the incident."

French stared at him, as if he had sprouted a second head. "You're serious?"

"I never say anything if I do not mean it," Gold replied. "Do the new terms suit you?"

"Well, yeah," French said, flustered. "It's just... thank you! Really, thank you!"

Gold sipped the tea, looking back up at the wall of Belle. Anything to avoid such effusive gratitude. It was unfamiliar and extremely uncomfortable. "We will naturally have to draw up a new contract," he said.

"Of course," French nodded at once.

Gold gazed at the pictures. "There is one thing I would ask," he added. "Something small."

"What?"

"Do you have a spare picture of yourself and your daughter?" Gold asked, looking at the man. 

French looked at him suspiciously. "Why?"

Gold's lips turned up slightly. "I have contacts," he said. "I can put her name and face out, and perhaps give you information as to her whereabouts."

"But why?" French persisted, looking hunted again.

Gold studied the handle of his cane. "I do not apologise, nor do I regret," he said, then raised his eyes to look at French. "Consider this some manner of compensation."

When he left a short time later, he carried a photograph in his breast pocket, and French was looking more dazed than ever. That was of no matter to Gold. What mattered was that he could tell Belle who she was, her name, and that she had a father who loved her despite years of absence.

Whether she wanted to see him or not would be a choice she could make herself.

He went to the shop, and spent the few hours there drawing up a new contract for her father. It was unnecessary but sometimes businessmen - even terrible ones - felt better for having their names in black and white.

When he returned home, stopping on the way to collect supplies for a meal, she was waiting by the stairs as usual, peeping out as he opened the door. Her bare feet were visible at the bottom of the stairs, and she wiggled her toes in greeting.

"Good day?" he asked, as she rose to take the bag of shopping from him.

She smiled a little and nodded. She motioned for him to follow and led him into the kitchen, which was spotlessly clean.

He looked at her in surprise. "You've been busy."

She giggled and ducked her head. It was a relief to see colour warming her cheeks. She was far too pale from months of being closed away. She waved him towards the table, and set about unpacking the bags. Her bare feet pattered lightly on the tiled floor.

"I have something for you," he said, watching her fondly. She was dressed in a pink summer dress, which was combined with one of his shirts to ward off the chill. 

She looked over at him from the cupboards.

"I found out who you are."

She dropped the tin she was holding, her eyes wide.

Gold reached into his pocket and withdrew the photograph that French had given him. He laid it on the table as she crept closer. She walked mostly on her toes, her feet still healing. She moved like a cat.

She looked at the picture, then at him.

"Your father," he said quietly. He watched her stretch her hand over the picture, not quite touching, her fingertips ghosting around the faces. "Your name is Adele French. His name is Moe. He's a florist. He lives here in town."

Her lips shaped her name and she looked at him, her eyes bright. Her lips turned up, trembling.

"You're welcome, dear," he murmured. "If you wish to see him, you need only ask." She pulled her hand back from the picture as if burnt. "Only if you wish to," he assured her. "But you should know he misses you, and he believes you left town. He had no idea of your whereabouts."

She picked up the photograph carefully with her fingertips. It trembled like a leaf in the breeze.

"You can keep it," he said, getting up from the table. "I'll see to dinner."

He didn't dare look at her face. To know what she might be thinking, to see her distressed or overjoyed, would be too much. He forced his attention to the food on the counter, and exhaled a shaking breath when he heard her feet pattering out of the kitchen, and upstairs. No doubt, she was going to hide this new treasure.

He was still slicing the vegetables when she returned, and he almost dropped the knife in surprise when she crashed into his back and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, her cheek pressing between his shoulders.

For a moment, he felt frozen, stunned. 

He finally managed to lay down the knife and touched the back of her palm tentatively. "You're pleased?"

She nodded emphatically, and her arms squeezed him a little tighter.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "You're welcome, dear," he said, then corrected himself. She had a name, here and now. "Adele."

She laughed, and he could hear from the hoarseness that she had been crying.

"And your father...?" She hesitated, then nodded. "But not for a day or two?" She nodded again, rubbing her cheek against his back. She was trembling again, but he knew that this time, it was not from terror. 

Gold stroked her hand gently. "I'll arrange matters," he said. "He and I have business to discuss anyway."

He almost regretted it when she loosened her arms around him, but that regret faded when she stepped alongside him and smiled. For a moment, she looked just as happy as she had, so many years ago, when she accepted a rose from him.

As promised, he arranged matters.

French only knew he was coming to Gold's house on the weekend, as the shop was closed. It was a private contract, Gold informed him over the telephone, and therefore, should be dealt with privately. He was only a little surprised that French didn't protest or ask to meet in a public forum. 

Adele spent the morning darting around the living room, moving objects, straightening books, trying to tidy a house that was already pristene. Gold knew better than to try and stop her, so he sat and watched, and occasionally lifted his feet from the floor so she could sweep around him again. 

When a car pulled up outside, she ran to the window and peered out around the curtains. Judging by the sound she made, it was the man they were expecting, so Gold got to his feet. She looked at him, wide-eyed, her hands clasped in front of her chest.

"I'll bring him in, dear," he said. "Just remember to breathe."

She managed to calm herself enough to pull a face as he headed for the door, reaching it just as French knocked. Gold looked over at her as she straightened her skirt - blue with butterflies this time - and neatened her hair. 

"Ready?"

She nodded, smiling.

Gold couldn't help smiling in response, and unlatched the door to let French in.

"Sorry I'm a bit late," French said. "I had to get the stand set up."

"It's quite all right," Gold said, stepping back. 

He could see Adele was practically vibrating from the corner of his eye, and saw the moment that French saw her. The man's jaw dropped and he stopped dead in his tracks. Gold took his time closing the door over. He smiled at the latch when he heard Adele whisper, "Papa."


	3. Chapter 3

The return of Adele French into her father's life was, for the most part, a good thing.

Her confidence was growing, and she spoke, albeit haltingly. That first day, she had curled in her father's lap like a child, and played with his buttons. She said little, but his next visit, she murmured to him about what had become of her.

Gold allowed them privacy, seated at the table and working on his books, but that did not mean he wasn't listening as he worked.

The tale was as he expected: a dark car drawing up while she walked to town in the rain, the woman with dark hair and dark eyes and a dark smile offering her a ride to town. It hadn't seemed a danger, so she agreed, and accepted a drink from the woman. She had woken in the room in the hospital, with no concept of when and where she was.

She had no idea how long she was there, but he knew well enough. She was probably taken the moment she left the Dark Castle, and in this place, her memory had shifted to encompass Storybrooke's reality.

Moe French insisted on visiting every day.

Gold knew it would raise suspicions, but he didn't have the heart to refuse Adele, when her face lit up at the sight of her father. He brought her flowers, a fresh bunch daily, and the house was full of the scent of them.

Gold was impressed by the man's restraint. After all, he had just found out his only daughter had been abducted and wrongfully imprisoned, and yet, he hadn't approached the Sheriff or even spoken about vengeance. This was a man who robbed a house over a van taken as collateral.

Unfortunately, it transpired that restraint was only in place due to necessary licensing laws for the purchase of a shotgun.

Gold only discovered this unfortunate new development when he was working at the shop and the telephone unexpectedly rang. No one ever called the shop, so he knew it could only be Adele, but when he answered, all he could hear was her panicked breathing. When under pressure or afraid, she seemed to forget entirely how to speak.

“It’s all right, dear,” he murmured. “Take your time.”

Only a moment later, the crackle of the radio was audible, and Ulf Janssen’s irritating voice rang down the line: “… not known how many have been taken hostage, but eyewitnesses say that the Town Hall is a no-go area. What made the mild-mannered florist snap…”

Gold stared into nothing. Of course French would have taken matters into his own hands. Of course he would have gone after the woman who locked his daughter up for years. Of course he would have done it in the style of the country they now lived in, with a very big gun.

He put the phone back to his ear. “Don’t worry,” he said, when he heard Adele’s trembling breaths again. “I’ll take care of it.”

Naturally, by the time he reached the Town Hall, the usual collection of rubberneck and gossips were already flocking there, held behind a police cordon put in place by the Sheriff, who was looking far more harried than usual.

“I need everyone to go home,” she called through a megaphone. “There’s nothing to see here.”

Gold’s lips twitched tightly. Nothing to see, when dear old Regina was taken hostage in her own base of power? Now, that sounded like something to see indeed, especially for the people of Storybrooke who believed her invincible.

He made his way through the crowd, which parted - as usual - to him. As much as they would deny it, there wasn’t a single resident of Storybrooke who would willingly get in his way, with the exception of the Sheriff.

“Sheriff Swan,” he murmured, once he reached the cordon. 

“Don’t start on me, Gold,” she snapped. “This isn’t a good time.”

“I’m well aware of that, Sheriff,” he murmured. “I’m simply here to offer some assistance in this situation.”

She looked at him cynically. “You? Assistance? You hate Regina and you almost beat the guy who has taken her hostage to death only a few months back. Why the hell would you help?”

His lips turned up just a little. “Let’s just say that Mr French and I have come to a new arrangement, and I know it would be in both my and his best interests to prevent him from doing something… foolish.”

She stared at him, cool and steady. “Explain. What do you know?”

“I know enough,” he replied quietly, “to know what he has just cause for taking out his grievances on the Mayor. I will be happy to give you the details, but presently, we have the far more pressing issue of the gun currently pointed at the Mayor.”

“And your suggestion for stopping him?”

Gold spread his left arm and inclined his head. “I can go in and negotiate with him for her release,” he said. “I’m sure it will be much better than risking fatalities, if you go in, guns blazing.”

The Sheriff studied him long and hard. “He’s under arrest, no matter what happens,” she said. “Don’t promise him any different.”

Gold smiled thinly. “Of course not,” he said. “We are all bound by the word of the law, Sheriff Swan.”

She lifted the tape of the cordon and let him through. “No tricks, Gold. Get in, get him unarmed and get him out here.” She offered him a radio, which he waved away. “I’ll need to know what’s happening.”

“I’ll get him out, Sheriff,” Gold murmured. “Don’t you worry about that.”

He limped towards the main doors of City Hall, his cane rapping lightly on each step, and he smiled slightly as he pushed the door open. It was lying ajar, and he could already here Moe French’s voice, low and angry. Gold closed the door behind him, the quiet click of the latch deafening in the tense stillness.

“Who’s there?” French snarled. “I said no one was to come in.”

“It’s just me, Mr French,” Gold murmured, taking his time to walk down the hall towards the Mayor’s private office. “No one else. I persuaded the Sheriff that we could talk like reasonable adults.”

He was unsurprised to see that French had bound Regina to her ornate chair, and there was a bruise spreading across one side of her face. For once, the woman looked genuinely terrified, and he wondered if he might feel a twinge of sympathy for her, if she wasn’t such a treacherous bitch. The man himself was standing behind her, the shotgun raised, but he lowered it at the sight of Gold.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

Gold rested his hands on top of his cane. “I had a telephone call at work,” he said mildly. “A certain young lady of our acquaintance. She couldn’t get a word out about what happened. I thought you might like to know she’s upset.”

French paled. “Is she all right?”

“I don’t know, Mr French,” Gold murmured. “I’m here. She wanted me to deal with it, so here I am. For all I know, she could be lying on the floor, broken and hysterical, and here you are on a vigilante mission.”

“Don’t,” French snarled. “Don’t try and make me feel guilty about this. This bitch is the one who did this. I want the truth. I want to hear her say it.”

“I’m not making you guilty,” Gold murmured. “I’m making a point. Your daughter needs you, Mr French, and getting yourself locked up won’t help. Do you believe anyone will take what a hostage says at gunpoint as truth? Even if she admits it, it would be considered tainted in any court in the land. Coercion is an unpleasant word, Mr French.”

“So is abduction,” French growled, walking around the Mayor.

Regina, thankfully, was staying blessedly quiet. For once, she was even staring imploringly at Gold, as if she was truly fearing for her life.

“Quite so,” Gold said, taking a couple of steps closer, and leaning on his cane. “But confessions obtained through menaces hold no water. We know that Adele was taken on her orders, but nothing you are doing now will help in any way. You will be locked away. She will have plausible deniability. Adele will not have a father.”

“So she’s going to get away with it?” French demanded savagely, pointing the gun in her face. “I’ll blow her away before I let that happen.”

Regina whimpered, flinching back from the barrel, and Gold stepped forward, raising his left hand placatingly.

“No,” he said quietly, calmly. “We gather the evidence, present it legitimately, show what has been done and then we use it. We don’t walk into City Hall in front of witnesses, murder the Mayor without giving a good reason, and expect to walk out into the streets as if nothing has happened.” He offered Regina a thin smile. “As amusing as it might be.”

French glared at him. “You think she would leave evidence?”

“She left Adele,” Gold murmured. “That’s the first piece.” He took a breath. “Moe, your child needs you. She’s broken enough already. Don’t have her stigmatised more by turning her father into a murderer.”

Reluctantly, French lowered the shotgun. “You can find evidence?” he said, his eyes still fixed on Regina’s pale and bruised face. 

“What do you think I’ve been looking for every day since she found me?” Gold murmured. “Let me take care of this. Give me the gun.” French looked at him warily. “French, do you want to see your daughter again? Then give me the damned gun.”

Reluctantly, French handed the weapon over. Gold took it with distaste. He was not a man who liked loud and violent weapons. The more subtle the weapon, the more he approved, and a shotgun was about as far from his liking as Regina. For appearances sake, he tucked it in the crook of his left arm, then barrel cool against his fingertips.

“The Sheriff is waiting outside to arrest you,” he said. “I would recommend you walk out, hands up, and go quietly. I’ll be right behind you.”

French nodded and with a last, scathing look at the Mayor, made his way towards the door.

“Well, dear,” Gold murmured, smiling down at Regina. “You really made yourself a pleasant little enemy there, didn’t you?”

The gun in his arm was enough of a threat to restrain her usual arrogance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said quietly, coldly.

“I’m sure you don’t,” he murmured, levelling the gun at her head thoughtfully. He could almost see the appeal of leaving her a rose-shaped splash of red plastered across the black and white wall. “But Miss French is under my protection now, and if you come after her again, I won’t be there to stop him. In fact, I’ll be encouraging him.” He leaned down with a small smile. “Please keep that in mind, and try to behave, dear.”

She scowled at him. “Untie me.”

He stepped back, looking her up and down. “I’m sorry, dear,” he said, turning away. “My hands are a little occupied at the moment.”

 

“Gold!”

He couldn’t keep the smile from his lips as he limped back out into the day.

As expected, the Sheriff was already cuffing Moe French and bundling him into the back of the squad car. He approached her, and held out the fun.

“As promised, Sheriff,” he said. “The Mayor is inside, cooling off.”

“She’s okay?”

He smiled slightly. “A little tied up, but I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

The Sheriff’s eyes narrow. “That’s not just a metaphor, is it?” Gold inclined his head, just enough, and she groaned. “Gold, you can’t just leave a hostage tied up!” She headed towards the building.

“I told you I would get him out, dear,” he called mildly after her. “I never said anything about her.”

Dear Emma threw a glare over her shoulder as violent as any shotgun and he chuckled.

“Gold.”

He looked down at the squad car. French was looking out through the window. “Don’t say anything without me present, French,” he said quietly. “If anyone asks, I am your attorney, and you have been advised against speaking until I’m there.”

French stared at him. “Why are you doing this?”

Gold’s lips twitched. “I have my reasons.”

“Adele?”

“Among them,” he acknowledged. “And remember, don’t breathe a word.” 

He handed the shotgun on to one of the Sheriff’s loyal lackeys, then set off in the direction of home. He wasn’t needed at City Hall anymore, and the crowd was already dispersing, but he knew there was somewhere he would be needed.

He was unsurprised when Adele all but flew at him from the stairs as he entered the house.

“Papa?” she whispered.

He put an arm around her, guiding her to the couch. She was trembling like a leaf. “He’s safe, dear,” he said, sitting down beside her. “He went after the woman who took you. I’m afraid it was necessary for the Sheriff to arrest him, but he’ll be safe in her custody.” The word tasted sour in his mouth. “She’s honourable.”

She looked up at him. “Her?”

“She’s still alive,” he said quietly. “He didn’t stoop to murder.”

Relief and disappointment warred on her face. “See him,” she whispered. “Want to.”

Gold gently smoothed her hair. “We’ll need to give the Sheriff a little time to clean up the mess around City Hall and make a start on all the paperwork, then we’ll go. Your father needs his attorney present before they can ask any questions.”

She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide. “You?”

The wonder in her face made his heart ache. “Of course, dear,” he murmured.

“F-for me?”

It sounded so much sweeter when she said it, so much more generous. He was doing everything he would normally never do, with no thought of price, payment or consequence, and he was doing it all for the sake of her. 

He lowered his eyes. “Yes.”

Her small hands were suddenly framing his face, lifting it, and her eyes were searching his, so bright and curious. The smile on her face was like summer sunlight, and he was sure his heart was about to stop when she leaned closer and kissed him gently on the lips.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “My brave Knight.”

Gold had never felt more afraid in his life.


	4. Chapter 4

Adele French was as nervous as sparrow.

Mr Gold possessed no car, as cars were prone to the most unusual accidents in Storybrooke, so their journey to the Sheriff's office was made when he called in another favour. It was almost trivial to use debts for as something as simple as a ride to town, but he did not intend to give the gossips fresh fodder with rumours of a girl in his company.

She had not let go of his hand from the moment they stepped out of the house. Her hand was trembling and her palm moist with sweat, her fingers slippery between his. He held her all the more securely. He always had been able to recognise the fearful and desperate. Belle - Adele was fearful now, and there was a veneer of desperation within it, as if she thought the world would crash down about her, if she was left alone.

"Don't worry," he murmured, as they drew up. "The Sheriff is an honourable woman. You have nothing to fear from her."

Blue eyes looked at him warily. "Safe?"

"Safer than most in town," he agreed, but added, "though I would be obliged if you did not tell her I said so."

Her lips twitched and she nodded.

Gold got out of the car first, then helped her out. Compared to the last time he had done so, she looked like a wholly new woman. She was dressed in blues, with simple sandals to allow for her still-healing feet, and her hair was intricately braided.

"Ready, dear?"

She nodded, her arm tucked through his. She was shivering, and pressed closer to him as they entered the building. He was unsurprised. After all, the last time she had been in an institution, the doors had been locked on her, and she had been abandoned there.

Each step took time, but he guided her on patiently, waiting when she faltered and murmuring reassuringly to her when she froze up. The sight of the cells and her father within made her sob aloud, and that caught the attention of the Sheriff. Sheriff Swan was at her desk, looking harried, a mountain of paperwork built up around her.

"Gold?" she said, rising.

Adele looked at him anxiously and he smiled quietly. "Go to him, dear. I will speak to the Sheriff."

The girl all but flew across the room, and Moe French rose from the bunk, both of them reaching through the bars to cling on to one another. 

"What the hell, Gold?" The Sheriff's arms were folded over her chest.

He looked at her. "I told you I would explain, Sheriff," he murmured, "and that's what I'm here to do."

"The girl?"

"His daughter," he replied.

The Sheriff stared at him. "A daughter? How come no one ever mentioned her before?"

"No one believed it necessary," he replied. He tapped the base of his cane on the floor. "You recall, Sheriff, when you interrupted a discussion Mr French and I were having on Valentine's day?" Her eyes narrowed and she nodded. "You asked who she was."

She sat back against the edge of the desk, staring at him. "You beat him up over his own daughter?"

Gold lifted his shoulders mildly. "I had been incorrectly informed that she had passed away," he said. "That the man himself was responsible. Domestic abuse one might say." He offered a thin-lipped smile. "There are some crimes that should not be tolerated."

Emma looked past him. Adele had pulled a chair close to the bars, and she and Mr French were holding on to one another's hands. "And here she is, obviously not dead."

"As I said," Gold murmured, "I was incorrectly informed."

Emma looked at him, then circled her desk and grabbed the keys. She crossed the office in a dozen long-legged steps. Adele recoiled, as if expecting reproof, but Emma just smiled at her, then unlocked the cell. "You can sit with him," she said, "but if I see any funny business, you're back outside."

Adele looked up at her, wide-eyed, then nodded and darted into the cell, wrapping her arms around her father. "Papa," she whispered. He hugged her tightly, almost hiding her completely with his arms, and he nodded wordlessly to the Sheriff.

Gold remained standing by her desk. "Thank you," he murmured when she walked back towards him.

"I can see there's a story here, Gold," she said, sitting down at her desk, "and I have a feeling you're the one to tell it." She motioned to the chair opposite her, and he sat. "So, spill. What's the deal with this girl? And why are you now playing Mr Nice-Guy with her father?"

Gold set his cane between his feet. "Perhaps," he said, "I feel that I should repay him for our little altercation."

She leaned back in her chair, gazing at him steadily. "No," she said. "It's something more than that."

Gold met her eyes calmly. "Miss Swan," he said quietly, "some weeks ago, this woman accosted me at my shop, on the run and terrified. She had escaped from the hospital, where it seems she has been confined for the last few years." He rolled the cane between his hands. "From what I understand, she was institutionalised within the psychiatric unit without her consent or the consent of her father, and based on what I have seen of her, she is no less sane than you or I."

Emma frowned at him. "That's a big accusation," she said. 

"Indeed," Gold replied mildly. "And you can see why Mr French may have been a little... upset to find out about it. He believed she had gone travelling, and was unaware that she was still in Storybrooke. He only found out recently."

"So why did he go after the Mayor?"

Gold gazed at her unblinking. "Who would you attack but the guilty?" he asked.

She leaned forward in her chair, staring at him, as if she could read his mind if she looked hard enough. "You're telling me he thinks Regina did this? Threw his daughter into an asylum and kept her locked up there?"

"He doesn't need to think it, Miss Swan," Gold replied. "He knows. Miss French told us. She can tell you the precise location of the room she was confined in, in the halls below the main body of the hospital. She can give you descriptions of the staff who tended her. The Mayor is lucky that she's more valuable alive than dead at present."

The Sheriff leaned back on her chair. He could see the scepticism in her features, but remained placid in the face of her scrutiny. "You and Regina don't get along, Mr Gold," she said. "This is just the kind of thing you could use against her."

He tapped his fingertips against the handle of the cane. "I have many things I could use against her," he said quietly. "This woman, this situation, is not one I would choose as my weapon." He gazed at her. "I know you are the one charged with upholding the law, Sheriff Swan. That is not my place. You are the one who can help them."

She leaned sideways to look past him at the cells, then straightened up again. “Who is she to you?” she asked.

Gold tapped his fingertips in a pattern. “She is someone I once knew,” he said, “before she was sealed away from the world.” He looked up at the Sheriff’s face. “If you will take care of this for me, I will consider us even. No more debts.”

The Sheriff snorted. “You’re a jackass,” she said, rising from her chair. “If I do this, I do it because it’s the right thing, not because I owe you.”

He studied his hand where it rested on the cane. “Nonetheless,” he murmured.

Emma leaned against the glass dividing them from the office, looking at the father and daughter in the cell. “What kind of mental state is she in?” she asked, her arms folded over her chest. “Is she willing and able to talk about what happened?”

Gold gazed at her, then away. “She’s fragile,” he said, trying not to remember the broken nights and the stifled sobs from the guest room, “but with support, she will speak. Her fear is that her words will be taken out of context and she’ll be locked away again.”

The Sheriff looked at him. “How long was she there?” she asked quietly.

He shook his head. “That, she can’t be sure of,” he said. “I would advise you to check the hospital sooner, rather than later. Mr French’s little outburst at City Hall will urge Regina to wipe all trace of her little prison as soon as she can.”

Emma rubbed her forehead. “This town doesn’t do things by halves, does it?” she said, walking around the desk to sit back down. “First, I have the Mayor taken hostage and now, you produce a long-lost daughter, who has been her prisoner for God knows how long. Can’t you people do something normal, like graffiti storefronts or something?”

Gold’s lips twitched ruefully. “My spray-can days are over, I fear,” he said. 

The Sheriff looked like she might have actually laughed, if Adele hadn’t screamed. Both Gold and Emma were on their feet in an instant, though he stumbled as his knee locked, and he grabbed the back of the chair to stabilise himself.

Emma was passed him and into the office before he could even straighten, and he saw at once what had caused Adele’s cry.

Regina was standing there, her path towards the cells blocked by the Sheriff herself.

The cell door clanged shut, pulled closed by their occupant, and French put himself between the bars and his daughter, who was hiding behind him, her hands clinging onto his shirt. She was barely visible behind him, and Gold clenched his teeth in fury. Adele, Belle, whichever she was, he would not see her afraid, not in his town.

“Madam Mayor,” he murmured, making his way to the Sheriff’s side. “As Mr French’s legal counsel, I’m afraid it is necessary that you are kept away from my client and his daughter, pending charges.”

“Charges?” Regina sneered. “He’s the one who walked into my office with a shotgun, Gold.”

“I’m sure that is a plausible argument,” Gold murmured, keeping his eyes on her face. One never looked away from a snake, not if one wished to walk away. “But as you can see, Mr French’s daughter is the one who will be pressing charges against you, dear. Kidnapping, falsifying evidence, tampering with public records, improper influence…” He smiled thinly at her. “I hardly think I need to go on.”

Regina stared at him, cold-eyed. “I don’t know what you hope to achieve with this little charade, Gold,” she said. “I know there’s no evidence for any of them, and if you hoped to make me angry, you’ve failed.” She stepped closer to him. “Now, get out of my way.”

He smiled slightly. “Shall I add official oppression to my little charge list, dear?” He leaned forward, still smiling until there was barely a breath between them. “You’ve no place here. A witness statement against Mr French is unnecessary, as I am already standing as witness. You are…” He paused as if considering the matter. “Unimportant.” 

“Gold,” the Sheriff said, putting her hand on his arm in warning.

Regina seemed completely oblivious to her, her dark eyes flashing. “You’ve got nothing, Gold,” she said, “but a madwoman and a florist with a temper and a tendency to do stupid things when he’s nervous.”

He gazed at her placidly. “I have a father who has been reunited with the daughter he loves more than life itself, the child he thought he had lost,” he replied quietly. He could see the flicker of pain shadow her eyes for a split second. He knew her weakness, as he always had. She missed her father, even now. Her son’s name had been evident enough. “Not that you could understand what that means.”

For such a slight woman, he was surprised by the force of the punch she landed on his face, and he stumbled straight into the Sheriff, his leg faltering beneath him. She caught him, pushing him upright, one hand under his arm. 

“Never,” Regina snarled, “speak of things you don’t understand.”

She whirled around to stalk away, but Gold grinned as the Sheriff caught her by the arm. He could feel blood running down over his lips, dripping onto his suit, but that was nothing when he could see the look on Regina’s face.

“Get your hands off me,” the Mayor hissed.

“Assault, Madam Mayor, in front of witnesses, including a police official,” Emma said quietly. “I can’t let you just walk out of here.”

Regina glared savagely at Gold, who was holding his kerchief to his bloodied nose. “You bastard,” she growled.

He inclined his head slightly. “I don’t know what you mean,” he murmured, dabbing at the blood trickling from his nose. “I simply pointed out that you have not experienced the trauma of the loss of a child.” He let the ‘yet’ hang unspoken in the air, as Emma took Regina by the arm and led her toward the vacant cell.

“I want my phonecall,” the Mayor said, whirling on Emma.

Gold picked up the receiver and plucked the cable from it, then dropped the receiver in the trash can. “It looks like the line may be busy, Madam Mayor,” he said without a trace of apology in his voice. 

“Gold, stop being a dick for five minutes, would you?” Emma snapped, closing the cell door on Regina and locking it securely. 

He inclined his head. “My apologies, Sheriff,” he said in a tone that was almost wholly convincing. “I’ll replace your telephone, but as we were here first…”

The Sheriff sighed, running her hand over her forehead as if she had the start of a tension headache. “This is going to cause paperwork like you wouldn’t believe,” she complained to no one in particular. “Madam Mayor, I’ll be with you in a few minutes. Gold, get your girl.” She headed for her desk, and Gold was sure he heard her mutter, “I need a deputy.”

Gold made his way over to the cell doors, opening French’s. “Come out now, dear,” he murmured, tucking away his kerchief to hold out his hand to Adele. “I believe we need to talk to the Sheriff privately.”

He knew Regina was watching, black and bitter and venomously, on the other side of the bars, as Adele - his Belle - laid her trembling fingers in his and walked unsteadily to his side.

“Mr French,” he said, “if you don’t mind waiting?”

Moe French looked like he had just been handed a surprising but welcome birthday gift, in the shape of the woman in the neighbouring cell. “I’m right,” he agreed, sitting down on his bunk, resting his hands on his thighs. “You take your time, Gold.”

Adele’s fingers closed tightly around Gold’s and she looked up at him.

“Are you ready to speak, dear?” he asked quietly.

Her smile was tremulous and heartbreaking, but determined. Her courage was returning, a little at a time, and he was glad he was there to see it.

“Ready,” she whispered.


	5. Chapter 5

The Sheriff could not have been kinder, and Adele more brave.

The room used to conduct interviews was grim and enclosed, which concerned Gold, but Adele sat calmly at the table. She folded her hands together on the surface and answered the Sheriff's questions in a soft, mostly-steady voice.

Much of the tale, Gold knew already, pieced together from what she had told her father, and what she had tentatively mentioned to him. He kept one hand wrapped around the handle of his cane, his eyes on her, and tried to keep his breathing steady and calm. It would not do to scare her with anger.

"How can you be sure that it was the Mayor?" Emma asked quietly. "You said your memories are hazy. Can you be sure it was her?"

Gold could see the way Adele's hands trembled on the tabletop. Wordlessly, he laid his own hand, palm-up, on the surface. She unknotted her fingers and placed one of her hands in his, clinging onto it. "It was her," she whispered. "She... visited."

"Visited?" The Sheriff's voice was gentle. "She came into your room?"

Adele shook her head. Her grip on Gold's hand was painfully tight, but he wasn't about to let her go. "A hatch. In the door. She would come. Look. Smile. Watch." She took a shivering breath. "Once every thirty days. I counted. Marked the days."

Gold's teeth clenched together, and it took force to keep his hand gentle around hers.

Emma laid her pen down, looking uncharacteristically serious. "Marked the days?" she murmured.

Adele nodded. She was trembling from head to toe. "Kept it hidden, so they wouldn't know. I had to know how time was passing. I had to count. Had to remember."

Gold looked sharply at Emma. If she had kept a tally of her days in captivity, and the evidence was still there, then it would be more than enough to support her claims, even if Regina had begun a cover-up the moment the girl escaped.

"You're doing well," Emma said, keeping her eyes on Adele, her voice steady and calm. "Now, I need to tell me how you got out."

Adele faltered as she whispered about feigning unconsciousness, being poked and prodded by a nurse, then managing to hit her hard enough to knock her over. Her voice trailed off into sobs as she related her flight into the woods.

"Miss Swan," Gold murmured urgently. "Her father. Please."

Emma nodded, running from the room.

Gold sat there, helpless, holding the weeping girl's hand in his. He could provide financial, legal, even defensive aid, but in the world of comfort and emotional support, he was lost.

"Addie." 

Gold pushed his chair back as Moe French hurried into the room. The big man knelt and gathered his daughter in his arms, letting her hide her face in his chest. She was sobbing openly, harsh and ragged, no ladylike little sniffs. He knew what came next: his shop, the attack, and then the quietness that followed before the current storm.

He startled when a hand touched his shoulder, and looked up.

The Sheriff was standing behind his chair, watching father and daughter. "She's going to pay for this," she said with a quiet ferocity that was wholly her mother's. "When I'm done with her, there won't be enough left to fill a doggy bag."

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Her eyes met his. "She's staying in your protection until this mess is resolved," she said, and threat and promise hung in her words. "Don't screw it up."

He met her gaze evenly. "Don't worry, Miss Swan," he murmured, "I have no intention of making any mistakes when it comes to Miss French's well-being."

She scrutinised him intently, as if she could read the truth in his words. "I believe you," she said finally. She sat down on the edge of the table, looking at French and his daughter. "And I know there's still something you're not telling me."

"I am not known for waxing lyrical," he observed quietly.

"You know what I mean, Gold," she said.

"I know." He looked at her. "Perhaps one day, but today, she is the one with the tale to tell."

Adele's sobs were gradually softening, and her father was murmuring gentle nonsense to her, his large hand smoothing her hair over and over. When she finally sat back, her hands still resting on his shoulders, her face was flushed and her eyes red, but a small, tremulous smile was curling her lips.

"Thank you, papa," she whispered.

French lifted his hand to brush the last tears from her cheek. "You be good, Addie," he said. "Mr Gold'll look after you."

Adele looked at Gold with such trust that it felt like the bottom dropped out of his stomach. "I know he will," she whispered. She hugged her father once more. "Don't get in trouble."

French laughed, only a little hoarsely. "I'm in jail, Addie," he said. "How much more trouble can I get in?"

She touched his cheek, then looked at the Sheriff. "He has to go back now, doesn't he?"

"Yeah," Emma said apologetically. "He did take the Mayor hostage. I can't release him without charge, even if she is a bitch."

"It's not a chargeable offence, unfortunately," Gold murmured.

Emma snorted in stifled amusement. "C'mon, Mr French," she said. "We'll get you back to your cell to enjoy the moral high ground."

French got up and brushed his hand against Adele's cheek gently, and Gold wondered for the hundredth time how he could have ever believed that the man would have willingly thrown his daughter to the wolves. Decades of the pettiness of humanity had clearly left him short-sighted. "I'll see you soon, love."

The Sheriff escorted him back out of the room. 

Gold silently offered Adele his kerchief and she smiled shakily, dabbing at her eyes.

"You've been very brave, dearie," he murmured. "The Sheriff is very impressed."

"That's good?" she asked. Her voice was roughened with tears.

"That's excellent," he replied. He drew the chair a little closer to hers. "She intends to do everything in her power to ensure that the Mayor is not capable of such a thing again."

"Safe now?"

He drew a small smile to his lips. "She and I are both watching over you," he said. What he didn't add was that it should cover all approaches, both legal and illegal. After all, he was not known for his benevolence, while the Sheriff practically glowed with it.

To his surprise, Adele reached out both hands to clasp his. "Maybe," she asked in a hopeful whisper, "we can walk? Outside? Safe there?"

He could not have refused, not even if it meant walking across hot coals. He would not confine her, not again. He had imprisoned her for long enough in one lifetime. In this one, he could never and would never ever do such a thing again. "Of course," he said, smiling. "Perhaps, we could even eat out? I know you must be tired of my limited culinary skills."

She laughed, and that broadened his smile. It was so rare to see an expression of genuine happiness on her face. 

He didn't realise the Sheriff had returned, or that she was leaning casually against the doorframe, watching them, until she cleared her throat. He looked around warily, and she raised an eyebrow, one side of her mouth quirking up. 

He straightened his back, rising from the chair. "Are we done, Sheriff Swan?"

"Adele just needs to check through and sign her statement," she said, pushing off from the doorframe. "I'll need to speak to Doctor Hopper about whether an evaluation will be needed, but you don't need to worry about that just now. You can just take her out to dinner or whatever."

He almost wished he could hex her for the mischievous glint in her eye.

"Where do I sign?" Adele asked, looking up. 

Emma leaned over the table, flipping through the forms. "Here," she said, "and here." She drew back, standing side-by-side with Gold. Her voice was low enough that Adele wouldn't overhear it. "Careful of your crush, Gold. Some people might get the wrong idea."

He slanted a look at her, but said nothing.

Adele seemed unaware as she scanned over the document, signed her name carefully, then set the pen down.

"Finished, dear?" he murmured.

She nodded, getting up. Without hesitation, she slipped her arm through his, offering him a smile that would have warmed him if he hadn't been aware of the Sheriff practically sniggering as she gathered up the paperwork.

All the same, it was something of a relief to step out into the world knowing that she didn't need to be hidden any longer. The smile on her face as they stepped out into the sunlight was worth more than all the gold he could have spun. That she was in his company would naturally warn others away, protecting her from any threat. 

Her grip on his arm tightened at the sight of other people, but she bravely schooled her expression into a smile. For a moment, she looked as calm and dignified as the night she walked out of her father's house on the arm of a monster. 

Gold inclined his head mildly to the postman who looked tempted to scurry across to the other side of the road. Others were keeping their heads down as he and Adele walked past. He had no doubt that as soon as they were out of earshot, whispers would start, as whispers always did. Nothing could ever remain hidden in Storybrooke, not forever. 

Adele looked up at him curiously. "They're afraid?"

His lips twitched. "I have quite the reputation," he admitted. "And they believe I might be annoyed if they look too closely at my choice of companions."

She squeezed his arm. "You're not frightening," she said softly, smiling.

He laughed quietly, without any real mirth. "You're the first to think so," he said. In this world, and the last.

She rested her head briefly on his shoulder, warm and heavy. "Their loss," she murmured.

He looked down at her with no small measure of surprise. By the moment, she was becoming more and more the Belle he remembered, the girl who had patiently dealt with him at his most wheedling and petty, and yet, still cared.

"Come along, dear," he said. "We should get you something to eat. I doubt you've had much with the excitement of today."

There were few options in town, which led them to the diner. As much as he hated to admit it, the Lucas woman ran an efficient eaterie, and it was small and quiet enough that Adele should not be too easily alarmed.

He was pleased to notice that the few customers who had been lingering over their drinks decided that leaving in a hurry was a wise idea as soon as he opened the door. Adele gave him a stern look, as if she suspected him of encouraging such behaviour. 

"I did nothing," he promised, leading her in. There was an empty booth with a window that looked out onto the street, so he guided her to it. She slipped into the seat with a smile, arranging her skirts prettily around her, and he settled opposite her.

Mrs Lucas was standing at the counter and Gold could feel her stare boring into the back of his head, but he ignored her in deference of handing Adele one of the menus. 

"Choose anything you like," he said. "A celebration."

"Of what?"

He spread one hand and shrugged. "Being out and about?"

She beamed at him. "Thanks to you."

He traced his fingertips along the edge of the table. "That's no matter. You needed help. I could hardly just abandon you."

“A lot of people would,” she said, her blue eyes as direct and knowing, and he had to look anywhere but them. “Crazy woman with a needle at your throat.” She opened the menu up and looked at it for a moment, then back at him. “You saved me.”

He made an abortive, dismissive gesture with his fingertips. “Nonsense.”

She looked at him, her lips turning up. “Well, then,” she said, “thank you for nonsense.”

He had a terrible feeling that he was blushing, and she had noticed it as well. There was something of the imp in the way her eyes danced. He took the other menu, flipping it open and glaring at it ferociously, trying his best to ignore her giggle.

Finally, when she decided what she wanted, and he had glared at the menu for long enough, he summoned over the Wolf-girl with a curl of his finger. She eyed him coolly, then turned a scarlet smile on Adele.

“Hey,” she said, “what can I get for you?”

Adele blinked at her, tongue-tied. “Um.” 

She looked imploringly at Gold, who nodded. “She would like to try a burger and fries,” he said briskly. “An extra-large chocolate milkshake, and possibly a strawberry sundae, if she has room leftover.”

Ruby looked Adele up and down. “Good luck, sweetie,” she said. “I don’t know where you’re gonna put it all.”

Adele shrugged with a tiny giggle. “I’m hungry.”

Ruby raised her eyebrows, then turned to Gold. “You too?”

“Coffee. Black.”

The girl swung around and walked off, hips swaying, and Adele stared after her.

“She’s… confident,” she said in a small voice.

“Overcompensating,” Gold muttered sourly.

Adele gave him a stern look. “Like you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

She cupped her chin in her hand and looked at him. “You. Big scary man. No one likes you. You make sure of it.” Her eyes fastened on his and she murmured, “Overcompensating. Don’t want to be liked. Don’t want people close.”

The damned woman always knew him too well. Both realities, and she recognised him for exactly what he was.

He tried to glare, but she only smiled, then smiled again, more shyly, at Ruby when she was presented with a towering milkshake. She knelt up on the seat like a child and settled down to drink it, while he turned his glare on the coffee with similar effect.

To his surprise, she managed to devour all of the burger, finish all but the dregs of the milkshake, and when the ice cream was delivered, she scooped up the first spoonful and extended her hand across the table.

He eyed her suspiciously. “What are you doing, dear?”

“You should try it,” she said. “You must be hungry.” She wiggled the spoon encouragingly, an imploring little smile on her lips. “Just a little?”

“I have my coffee, dear, and that’s sufficient.”

She pouted.

He wrapped his hands around his cup determinedly. He was Rumpelstiltskin. He was the Dark One. He was the creator of the most terrible curse ever cast by man or beast. He was mighty. He was powerful. He was the scourge of worlds. He was a terror in the night.

He was going to try the damned ice cream.

“Very well,” he finally acquiesced, and she leaned across the table to pop the syrupy mess into his mouth.

She seemed content once he had agreed to taste a single spoonful, humming happily as she consumed the rest. Where she was putting it all, he had no idea, but all at once, the towering glass was empty and she sat back with a happy sigh.

“Satisfied?”

“Mm.” She patted her stomach. “Very.”

He looked at her fondly. “You’ll regret it by evening,” he said, then slid to the edge of the seat. “Shall we take that walk you wanted?” She nodded at once, shaking her skirts out as she got up from the seat. “Wait by the door, dear, and I’ll settle our account.”

Mrs Lucas watched him approach with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

“Our bill,” he murmured.

She tore their order down from the rack behind the counter, beating the numbers into the cash register with unnecessary violence. “Didn’t know you had a lady friend, Mr Gold,” she said, falling down in her attempt at casual. “A young lady friend.”

His lips turned up in the expression that certainly wasn’t a smile. “I’m certain there are many things you don’t know about me, Mrs Lucas,” he said in his softest, mildest and most unsettling tone, “most especially about the company I may choose to keep.”

She glared at him, then looked over at Adele, who had apparently been cornered by her granddaughter at the door. Gold watched Adele from the corner of his eye, seemingly holding her own in the conversation, although there was an expression of indignation on her face.

“That’ll be seventeen dollars, fifty-seven,” Mrs Lucas said abruptly. 

He pushed a twenty across the counter. “Consider the remainder a tip,” he murmured, “about minding one’s manners.”

He didn’t wait to see the look on her face, making his way towards Adele.

She, however, was making her way towards him, a determined look in her eyes that worried him more than a little. Behind her, Ruby was staring and astonished, and that was even more worrying.

“Adele, dear,” he began, when she reached him.

Whatever he was going to say was forgotten when she rose on her toes and kissed him like it was the end of the world.


	6. Chapter 6

Not a word was said for four blocks after they left the diner.

Mr Gold couldn't think of a single thing to say. Adele's arm was looped through his and her head was down, as if she were embarrassed by her behaviour. He wondered if it was the fact she had kissed him that was troubling her, or the fact that - in a moment of complete and irrational weakness - he had dropped everything to kiss her back.

Lucas and her granddaughter had still been gawping as he and Adele broke apart, staring at once another, and he took her by the arm, hustling her out as quickly as possible. 

He wanted to look at her, to ask her if she would forgive him, to say anything that might remedy the situation. She was vulnerable and kissing her as if she were his lost Belle was unforgivable. She wasn't Belle. She didn't know who she was to him, and he shouldn't take advantage.

Her hands moved on his arm, slipping from the crook of his elbow down his sleeve. Her fingers threaded through his, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Adele," he murmured.

"It's all right," she whispered. She tilted her head to look up at him. "She told me you were bad news. Told me to get away from you while I can."

He looked down at her in astonishment. "You wished to make a point."

Her lips twitched. "Nobody chooses my fate but me," she said softly, squeezing his fingers. "And I'm choosing to be with you. I don't care if they don't like it."

His heart felt like it was constricting in his chest. Those words, directed to him. "Dear, I'm not a good man."

Blue eyes gazed at him. "You're good enough." She leaned closer and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Come on. Home."

Why, he wondered, why was it possible that she could render him speechless? She could make him love her with a smile. If she crooked her finger, he knew he would follow her to the very ends of the earth.

For the first time, he felt what it was like for time to pass in a blur around him. Perhaps, this was what it felt like to be under the cursed. Moving, walking, maybe even talking, and suddenly, it was evening, and he was sitting in his living room, staring at a book he couldn’t remember owning or even taking from the shelf.

He got up from the chair to replace the book on the shelf.

“Are you angry?” Adele asked quietly from the kitchen door.

He turned, startled. “Angry, dear? Why would you think that?”

She twisted the dishcloth between her hands, looking down at it. “You’ve been quiet all afternoon,” she said nervously. “I upset you, didn’t I? When I kissed you?”

His fingertips rested on the spine of the book. “Why would I be upset?” he asked, looking at the book, then at her. “You had a point to make. I believe you made it clearly.” He offered a smile that he knew didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I only hoped I didn’t alarm you with my response.”

Her cheeks turned a soft shade of rose and she shook her head. “No,” she whispered, lifting her eyes to look at him. “No, you didn’t.” She licked her lower lip, then folded the cloth carefully between her hands. “Why did you?”

He withdrew his hand from the book, and set it on the edge of the shelf. It felt better to have something stable to lean on. His world felt it might be pulled from beneath him, as if he were part of some amateur conjuring act.

“Why did I…?” he said, his mouth dry.

She looked at him. “You kissed me too.”

His fingertips pressed painfully against the shelf to the point of bruising. “Yes. Yes, I did, didn’t I?” I love you, he thought desperately. I’ve loved you for decades, even after you were gone, even when I had nothing else. His lips trembled. “A beautiful young woman was kissing me, dear. I’m only a man.”

She approached him slowly, her head to one side, the folded towel turning over and over in her hands. Her hair was loose, he noticed distractedly, waving around her cheeks, and she looked so very like she had the night he drove her away.

“That’s not it,” she said quietly.

He wished he could stride past her, push her aside, act as if his self-control hadn’t shattered in that perfect moment, with her in his arms. He wished he could do anything that didn’t mean clinging to the bookshelf for dear life and praying to all the Gods of the Forest that just once, he wouldn’t make a mess of things.

“Adele, that’s all there is,” he lied as steadily as he could. “You’re a beautiful young woman. I’m a lonely old man. You gave me something I haven’t had for a long time.” He forced a tight smile onto his lips. “I apologise for taking advantage of you.”

She set the towel down on the coffee table.

His body was so tense that his knee was spasming painfully. Even if he had anywhere to go, he wouldn’t be able to move, not until she was out of the room, out of his line of sight, out of his life once again.

“You’re lying,” she said. Her voice was soft, sad. “Please don’t lie to me.”

He turned his face away, drawing a shaking breath. “Adele…”

Her fingertips touched his cheek and he all but slammed back against the bookshelves.

“Please,” he whispered, “please don’t.”

“Look at me,” she said quietly, calmly, all the things he wasn’t feeling, but he obeyed, he couldn’t not obey. She was so close and her expression so familiar, and he felt he was falling in that plummet again, the one that almost stripped his power from him. “I trust you. I can see when you lie.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out choked, ragged. “You must be the only one.”

She spread her fingers on his cheek, and she was so close he could feel the warmth of her through his shirt. “Tell me,” she said quietly. “Tell me why you kissed me.”

He forced himself to meet her eyes, those blue eyes that had haunted his nightmares for years. He dreamed of her flayed, scourged, burnt, unrecognisable, and then falling, falling, falling and nothing more than a forgotten stain on the forest floor. He dreamed of calling her back from the brink, holding out his hand, only for her to stare at him, betrayed and heart-broken, and leaping before he could catch her. He seldom slept anymore, not even now that she was alive and back. The nightmares had put paid to any hopes of a restful night many years before. 

“I can’t tell you, dear,” he whispered hoarsely. 

She was suddenly closer still, all but in his embrace, were his arms not limp by his sides, his hands trembling. “Tell me,” she whispered, pleadingly. “I don’t have much in this life. Not much I know. Not much I remember. But I know you. I know I know you.”

His heart twisted in his chest. “Know me?” he asked, hardly daring to believe it.

She released a shaking breath. “Yes. I don’t know why. I don’t know… I don’t even know your first name…” Her fingers brushed his cheek so gently, “But I know you. I know I feel safe when you’re with me. I know I can trust you.”

“Dear,” he said sadly, “I was the first person you ran into. I was kind to you. It could be that.”

She shook her head, her hands moving to grip his shoulders. “Don’t,” she said urgently. “Don’t patronise me. Don’t tell me it’s my mind playing games. I’m not insane, no matter what she tried to tell me. I’m not. I know you. I know I do. I feel like I’ve been looking for you my whole damned life.”

Gold stared at her, dazed. 

It felt like that night, all over again, only everything was wrong: instead of joy and hope, her eyes were lit by urgency and anxiety, as if she feared she really was starting to go mad. Her hands were shaking at his shoulders, as much as his were by his sides.

“Please,” she whispered, staring at him, “please tell me this is real. You know me. I know you. Please.”

His hand moved of its own accord, resting against her hip, so lightly, as though he would break her if he touched her. “I’ve loved you,” he said in a whisper, “for longer than you can even imagine.”

Her face lit up and all at once, she was kissing him again. 

He gently pushed her back. “Dear,” he whispered. “Not yet. Not until everything is resolved. I can’t be seen to be taking advantage of you.”

Her hands were framing his face, warm, soft, gentle. “What if I want to take advantage of you?” she asked, the look in her eyes making his insides twist on themselves. 

He brought both of his hands up to gently catch hers, drawing them away and kissing her fingertips. “As tempting as that may be,” he said quietly, wondering how she could hear him over the deafening drum of his heart, “we really must restrain ourselves.”

“Do you really love me?”

He offered a small, unguarded smile. “You said yourself you can tell when I lie.”

She turned her hands in his, clasping them, and gazed at him. Her smile was softer, crinkling the corners of her eyes. “I can,” she said. She swung their linked hands between them. “I thought I was imagining it, but the girl at the diner, she said she’d never seen you make goo-goo eyes at anyone.”

“Goo-goo eyes?” He drew himself up indignantly. “I don’t think so.”

Adele giggled, and he had forgotten just how much that sound urged smiles to his lips. “I think so,” she said, then leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek. “I’m going to bed. See you in the morning?”

He nodded and smiled slightly, fighting every impulse to pull her back towards him, to kiss her as eagerly as she had kissed him, to lay her down on the hearth rug and love her right there and then. “Sleep well, dear. You know where to find me if you need anything.”

She stepped back, out of reach, and he leaned back against the bookshelves, watching her cross the floor and vanish up the stairs. His hands were trembling, his palms slick with sweat, and he knew his legs would only get him as far as the nearest chair.

He struggled over and sagged down into it.

This, he knew, was not wise, not wise at all. Telling her the truth, even in part, was adding a layer of complications that Regina would have a field day with, if she knew. After all, she had kept the girl alive, she had arranged for his cup to be stolen. She knew enough to damage them both, and even more so if he was seen fraternising with a woman recently escaped from a mental asylum.

Adele didn’t need to be insane for that fact to be used as a weapon against them.

He rubbed his knee, massaging the tension out of the crippled joint. The Sheriff would doubtless be getting some much needed rest now, and the temptation to visit the jail, the damned Queen, unsupervised and tell her to forget all about Adele was growing. It couldn’t and wouldn’t work, though. He knew that. 

It had to be done legitimately, this time.

Belle was honest and true and decent.

Adele was the same.

No lies or deception or foul deeds would sully her. She would be proven by her virtues and honesty alone.

He retrieved his cane and rose, switching off the lamp. There was enough light from the street to illuminated his way, and he trod lightly so as not to disturb her. Her door was ajar as always, and he paused briefly, wondering if she was already asleep.

No.

Better not to think on it.

He forced his mind elsewhere, to the legal matters at hand, to the trials they were going to face in the coming days. Regina would not doubt have some fascinatingly twisted defence, and he knew he had to be alert. It would not do to think about the woman in the room next door, and how much he wished he could be holding her in his arms.

Even when he was lying in the bed, the room still and silent around him, he could not stop his mind from running in circles. He tucked one hand beneath his head, gazing at the ceiling by the buttery light of the streetlamp, his other hand resting over his chest on the sheet. He wouldn’t sleep a wink, he knew. 

He went from horizontal to sitting bolt upright when he heard the soft creak of one of the floorboards in the hall. Adele seldom left her room in the night, though she slept as rarely and fitfully as he did.

When she pushed the door open, he knew he shouldn’t have been surprised, but to see her there, a pale shape in the darkness, his heart thudded mercilessly against his ribs. Had he half a wit about him, he would have been out of the bed, standing, safely on neutral ground.

But he had nothing.

Nothing but the vision that sometimes slipped through the boundaries of his consciousness, when his mind was being merciful and granting him a dream, rather than the bloody and horrific nightmares that were more often his companions. 

His throat felt it was contracting, and breathing was becoming a problem. “Adele?”

She rested her hand against the doorframe. “You said to come,” she said softly, “if there was anything I needed.”

He nodded at once, pushing aside the sheets and blankets and swinging his legs down over the side of the bed. “What do you need, dear?”

“You.”

He stared at the floor blankly for a moment, then swallowed hard. “Adele, dear…”

She walked across the floor on bare feet until she was standing by him. He could see the lace edge of the bottom of her cotton nightdress just below her knees, her calves, her toes, each nail painted a different colour. 

Her hand came to rest, so lightly, on top of his bowed head. “I can’t sleep alone,” she said in a whisper. “I know you dream too. I’ve heard you waking, like you’ve heard me.” Her fingers smoothed over his crown, and he wished he had the courage to look up, as she curled her fingers into his hair. “Maybe you can keep my nightmares away?”

He raised his head finally to look at her. She looked so young, but no longer the unspoiled, naïve, innocent girl he once knew. Regina - damn her soul - had ensured that by locking her away, trying to break her. 

“I’m not a good man,” he warned her again, quietly. “I’ve failed the people I care about before. I would hate to let you down again, dear.”

She smiled, then caressed his cheek gently. “Don’t be afraid,” she whispered. “We’ll do this together.”

Afraid. Don’t be afraid. He almost laughed. He almost wept. His brave Belle, asking him to go against the habit of a lifetime, without even being aware of how they had last parted.

She offered him a smile, small and sweet and hopeful, and he knew it was his choice, his move, his place now.

He looked up at her, then pushed the covers back a little further. Invitation, wordless and open. “Stay with me,” he said softly. “Maybe we can keep each other’s nightmares at bay.”

Adele’s smile could have outshone the moon, as she climbed into the bed beside him. She curled up against his right side, warm and real and there, and rested her hand on his chest. “Thank you,” she whispered.


	7. Chapter 7

When Gold woke, it was - for the first time in many years - with a sense of calm.

Adele was nestled against him, as if she had been crafted to fit against his body, her head warm and heavy on his shoulder. Her fingers were curled into his pyjama top, and while his arm was numb where she lay on it, he couldn’t imagine anywhere he would rather be.

He tilted his head to look down at her. Pale morning light was filtering through the half-drawn curtains, illuminating but not yet blinding. Her eyes were still closed, her lashes delicate brushes of darkness on the pale skin of her cheeks, and he was pleased to see that even in her sleep, there was a small smile curving her lips.

Nothing had happened.

He let her into his bed, and they lay in the darkness, holding onto one another like the last survivors of a storm. She hadn’t woken, sobbing, and he had barely dared to believe he could sleep for fear he would wake and she would be gone.

And yet, they had reached morning, and he had slept, and she was still there.

His fingertips moved slightly, to brush the end of her hair, which spilled down behind her. It was longer than he remembered it being, but he hardly felt the need to complain. He knew he would be happy just to watch her sleep, as long as she was always there, with him, peaceful and rested.

The telephone shrilled and she was upright in an instant, looking around like a startled deer.

“Telephone, dear,” he said with a quick, wary smile. “I doubt we’ll reach it in time. They can leave a message.”

Adele took a shivering breath. “Oh. That’s all?” She looked at him, then smiled, and a knot of tension that had tightened around his chest loosened. Somehow, he believed she would regret the simple act of sleeping beside one who helped her feel safe. “Did you sleep?”

“Well,” he admitted. “Better than I have in some time.”

Her cheeks flushed prettily. “Good,” she said, then stretched her arms over her head and yawned expansively. His lips twitched as she ran her fingers through her hair, rumpling it even more. “What?”

“You look delightful,” he admitted.

Adele laughed, still blushing. “And you don’t mind that I stole the covers?” she asked hopefully.

“I’m only a small man,” he replied, pushing those same covers back from his legs and sitting up at the edge of the bed. “I think I can manage to share with a small lady.”

All at once, her arms were around him from behind, her cheek against his shoulder. “Why are you so kind to me?” she asked in a whisper.

He covered her hand with his own on his chest. “Because there was a time when I wasn’t,” he admitted. “I have amends to make, dear.”

She squeezed him warmly. “I’ll make breakfast,” she said, scrambling from the bed. “Take your time. Don’t hurt your leg.” She was out of the room, vanished into the morning like a sprite, and he heard her leaping down the stairs.

He followed at an easier pace, leaning on his stick. He remembered the days when he could caper about, dancing and twirling, and missed them for that alone. Given the choice of his current state with a bad leg and those lonely days, a bad leg was a small price to pay.

She was rattling around in the kitchen when he reached the hall and paused by the telephone. Unsurprisingly, the message light was flashing, so he pressed the play button.

“Gold. We got a problem. Call me.”

The Sheriff.

Gold glanced towards the kitchen, then took the telephone into the living room, sitting down and dialling her number. She answered on the second ring. 

“Swan.”

“You called?”

He heard her exhale sharply. “Yeah, I did,” she said. She was keeping her voice down, no doubt because of the prisoners she currently had custody of. If there was a problem regarding Adele, then either of them might prove a liability. “You remember you girl’s testimony?”

“I was there,” he agreed. “Which aspect?”

“The fire escape she used to bust out into the woods,” Emma replied. He could imagine her, pushing her hands through her hair, her expression one of frustration. “She said it was at the backside of the hospital, the north-facing side, right?”

“That’s what she said,” he agreed.

“Gold, there’s no damned door.”

He stared blankly ahead. “Repeat that.”

“There’s no door,” the Sheriff replied softly, urgently. “I checked every inch of the north-facing walls. Hell, I even tried the other sides, and not a one of them opens out onto the woods where she said they did.”

“Check again,” he said quietly. “She came out of there.”

“Gold, trust me, I looked.”

He drew a slow breath between his teeth. “Look again, Sheriff.” He was snarling, dangerous, and he didn’t give a damn. “Look more closely.”

There was a savage huff of air through the phone. “I’m going to go again,” she said. “I want to believe your girl, but this doesn’t make sense. I need you to come along with me. A fresh set of eyes. If she could come too…”

“No.”

“She could show…”

“Sheriff Swan,” he said, his tone glacial, “as long as she lives, I will not make her go near that place again, not unless it’s to save her life.” He drew a steadying breath. “I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

He terminated the call, staring at the receiver.

He should have known. Should have checked.

Of course they would have covered up her escape, whether with Regina’s knowledge or without. It was hardly a great skill, disguising what had once been a door as part of a wall. It might have been bricked up, painted over. It could be any number of things. In the weeks since she had escaped, they had time enough.

He rose slowly and set the receiver back down.

“Is everything all right?” Adele called through from the kitchen.

His hand clenched on the cane. She could tell when he lied, when he was pretending. It was her curse, to understand him. “It will have to be a quick breakfast, dear,” he said, pushing the kitchen door open and walking in. “The Sheriff and I are going to the hospital this morning, to have a poke around.” He almost managed a convincing smile. “You’ll be all right here?”

She looked at him gravely. “Better than you’ll be there,” she said in a low voice.

He offered her his hand, and she crossed the floor and took it at once. “I won’t come to any harm, dear,” he said, “I can promise you that.”

She searched his face, and nodded. “Breakfast first,” she said, only a little shakily.

“Breakfast first,” he agreed.

It was a silent, tense affair. 

For her, he knew it was the fear of that place. If he could, he would raze it to the ground for her, but not yet. For him, though, his concern at how much had been concealed was growing by the moment. Regina’s people were good at hiding the bodies, both literal and metaphorical.

When he paused at the front door, ready to depart, he was unsurprised to see Adele already taking refuge on the stairs, watching him go, hidden from sight.

As arranged, he met the Sheriff at the hospital. She looked exhausted, shadowed circles under her eyes and her hair pulled back in a ponytail for once. If appearances were anything to go by, she had worked through the night.

“Sheriff,” he said.

She nodded brusquely. “You okay to walk in the woods?” she asked.

“Of course.”

She set off ahead of him, walking slow enough to let him keep pace, but not pausing to check on him every five minutes, for which he was grateful. The main sidewalk around the hospital was free of obstructions, but was more uneven as they reached the wooded area which framed the building.

“I started here yesterday,” the Sheriff said, finally stopping and indicating a bare, windowless stretch of wall. “I don’t know if I’m maybe missing something or if they’ve walled it in or something, but you know what to look for, right?”

“A cover-job,” he said, baring his teeth. “Yes. I know what to look for.”

She waved towards the wall. “Be my guest.”

He took his time, examining the wall intently, as well as the ground around it. There were low bushes and ferns that had clearly been growing there for years, unbroken and undamaged by anyone pushing through them. A few sections of the wall were free of plant life, but he dismissed them almost at once.

The further along the wall he got, the more frustrated he became.

The lichen that spread up the wall from the ground was continuous, and he could see no shift in texture or colour. The wall - likewise - was the same uniform colour, built of the same uniform blocks, and there was no sign anywhere that any of the blocks had been adjusted or moved recently. 

He touched the wall sporadically, examining the texture, looking for anything that might give away where the exit had been concealed. He knew it was here somewhere. It had to be. Adele would not and could not have lied in such detail.

“Anything?” The Sheriff was several paces behind him.

He paused where he was standing. “You can see what I can see,” he said without turning. “I know there is something hidden here, but it has been well done.” He drew his hand away from the wall. “They’ve had time.”

She was silent for a moment, and when she spoke, it was hesitantly. “Gold, your girl…”

“She’s not lying,” he said quietly, flatly. He turned and looked at her. “I know this woman, Sheriff, and I know that she’s telling the truth.”

“I want to believe her.” She rubbed her forehead with one hand. “Gold, this isn’t looking good. There’s no evidence that she came out this way. I’ve got a search warrant for the basements of the hospital, but if we don’t turn anything up, there’ll be questions.”

“We’ll look first,” he said. “Then you can worry about lack of evidence.”

She nodded, jerking her head back in the direction they had come from. “I told Whale to expect a visit,” she said. “We can knock the dirt off our shoes and head straight in.”

He nodded, falling into step behind her.

Inside the hospital, the search was just as fruitless. Whale admitted ignorance of the lower levels, and the general observation was that they served as storage and nothing more. The coded doors were precautionary only, and when Gold and Emma descended, they found only one hall, lined with cleaning supplies. 

“There should have been a series of passages,” Gold said quietly. “With the layout of the hospital, this doesn’t make sense. The design schematics for buildings like these always incorporate as efficient as a use of space as possible. This can’t be all the basement storage.”

Emma glanced at him from the corner of her eye. She believed him, but in a place that clearly was nestled right in Regina’s hand, it wasn’t a thought she wanted to voice aloud. “It looks like this is it,” she said, shining her flashlight around the room. “I guess the designers must had problems with the foundations or something.”

Gold exhaled. He wanted to tear at the walls with his bare hands, find the evidence they needed, but it would do them little good if he didn’t know where to begin. The longer it was delayed, the longer Adele suffered, and he didn’t want that.

“We should head back downtown,” Emma prompted, laying a hand on his shoulder. He was amazed he didn’t whirl on her, strike her hand aside. She was helping, that was what stilled him where he stood. She was the one person who could help now.

“Downtown,” he agreed grimly. “We need to discuss how to proceed.”

There were a few curious looks given when he climbed into the Sheriff’s car, but the fact he was riding as a passenger was clearly much less interesting than the other option. He closed the door, put on the seatbelt, and looked straight ahead.

“I don’t like this,” Emma said as soon as she turned on the engine. She didn’t look at him, but he had a feeling her expression was as stony as his own. “Something isn’t right about this whole thing, and it’s too big to be anyone but Regina.”

“The basements have to be bigger,” he said quietly. “There’s not a chance that a building that large is limited to one storage basement. Even if the hospital was contemporary to the eighties, they would have boilers and generators stored down there.”

She looked at him then. “Gold, what the hell is going on? What did this girl do to the Mayor to piss her off so much? Why is she being framed like this?”

He ran his fingertips along the handle of the cane. “She associated with me,” he said, then held up his hand to silence any further questions. “While I would love to regale you with the tale, that’s the heart of it. I knew Adele, years ago. I believed her dead. Regina made damned sure of that. I believe she wanted some manner of leverage over me.”

“If I ask…”

“I can’t explain why,” he said, as the car pulled out into the road. “Regina’s methods and madness are her own affair.” He laughed dryly without humour. “For some reason, she seems to consider me a threat.”

“Some reason, huh?” Emma said in a tone dripping sarcasm. 

He lifted his shoulders slightly. 

The Sheriff shook her head. “I get that covering up evidence of illegal imprisonment is good for Regina, but I still don’t get why locking up a girl you knew fits into her things-that-are-normal world view.”

He offered her a sparing look. “You have met our gracious Mayor, have you not?”

Her lips twitched wryly. “Good point.” She turned onto the main street. “You know I can only keep her in custody until this afternoon, right?” she said. “Twenty-four hours from the moment she hit you. We need to get something solid to pin her down and right now, we’re grabbing at shadows.”

He was silent for a moment. “The basements are important,” he said. “You can’t hide what was always there, not forever.” He drummed his fingers on the handle of the cane. “Unless they have been extremely organised, there should still be blueprints of the hospital’s original floor plans in the public records office.”

She nodded. “Good thinking,” she said, “but what if she thought of that already?”

Gold smiled thinly. “The hospital should hold a set as well,” he said, “though that one will probably have been forgotten about. Old legislation demanded it, so it will be there, even if no one is aware. The hospital archives would certainly have them for safety reasons, in case of any emergency within the building.”

“Okay.” She nodded. “You hit the records office. You know your way around there. I’ll go back to my office and make a noise about the crazy girl being wrong about everything. It might get her defences down enough to make her screw up.”

“We can but hope,” he murmured as she pulled up outside the records office. “Make sure to be very vocal about me searching for Adele’s birth details and so forth. Things that I might otherwise find here.”

Emma nodded again. “You want me to call her and let her know we’re working on it?”

Gold shook his head. “Until we know more, she doesn’t need to be told. She has been distressed enough already.”

The Sheriff looked at him. “Gold, you dropped everything to come to the place she hates most in the world, then you’re not telling her what you found out there, and you don’t think she’ll be distressed? Have you ever met another human being?”

Gold stared at her blankly for a moment. “Records office, then home,” he said at once.

The Sheriff almost smiled. “Atta boy.”


	8. Chapter 8

Gold got back to the house shortly before noon. 

The visit to the Public Records Office had been about as useless as the initial visit to the hospital. All records relating to the hospital were in a charred filing cabinet, burnt to ashes, and no doubt, Regina’s lackeys were quite willing to point the blame at him and his arson attack on the City Hall building. 

Adele emerged from behind the banister the minute he entered. She looked pale as a sheet and said nothing, waiting for him to give her news, bad or otherwise.

“Don’t worry, dear,” he murmured. “We’re looking into the blueprints of the hospital. It will just take a little time to get hold of them.”

She laid her hand against the bottom of the banister, gazing at him. “She’s hidden it all, hasn’t she?” she said quietly, her voice tiny and fragile. “Everything I told you about. It’s all hidden away.”

“It can’t be hidden forever,” he said, crossed the floor to take her free hand. It lay limp between his fingers, cold and heavy. “Dear, trust me, the Sheriff and I both believe you. We won’t stop looking until we find evidence.”

Her mouth turned up in a smile that was as fleeting as lightning. “I know,” she said, but she drew her hand from his. “I-I think I need to lie down for a little while.”

He could only watch as she all but fled up the stairs. He didn’t want to believe he heard a sharp sob as soon as she was out of sight, but it was more than likely. They had been too confident that the moment Regina was locked up, everything would fall into place, but now, it was all falling apart instead.

Gold made his way to the living room, taking the phone with him. 

For the second time in one day, he called the Sheriff.

“Swan.”

“Public records are useless,” he said tersely. “Nothing but scrap and ashes.”

“Damn it,” Emma muttered. “Regina’s pulling out all the cards here. Called in the DA as her legal advisor and everything. Wrongful arrest, slander, improper conduct. You name it. She’s out to get my badge.”

Gold bared his teeth habitually. “She can’t take it,” he said. “Not even if she wants to. You were elected by the people. She doesn’t get a say in that.”

The Sheriff laughed ruefully. “Mr Gold, my own personal cheerleader,” she said. “Didn’t see that coming.” She blew out a noisy sigh. “How’s she doing? Is she okay?”

“She didn’t take the news well,” he admitted. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is our dear Mayor going to make bail?”

“What do you think?”

That answered the question. He sat up a little straighter in the seat. This was no time to play fair, not when Adele needed to know she was safe, and their mutual enemy was safely closed away and no threat. There was finding evidence and doing things properly for Adele’s sake, but that did no preclude ensuring that Regina suffered.

“Miss Swan,” he murmured, a slow smile crossing his face, “if you would be so kind as to put me on to Mr French? Tell him that his daughter wishes to have a word with him.”

“What are you up to?” she asked suspiciously.

“Just try to imagine that what I just told you was the truth, dear,” he murmured. “If you don’t want Regina to walk out that cell in the next three hours, pass the phone to Mr French and tell him that his daughter wants to talk to him.”

He was both surprised an impressed that the next voice on the line was French. “Addie?”

“I’m afraid not,” Gold said quietly. “There have been complications. I need you to ensure that Regina stays where she is. Keep talking as if I’m Adele, and I’ll explain.”

“That’s good to hear, sweetie,” French said, and Gold winced. French might have been a loyal and protective father, but he wasn’t much of a liar or actor. Unfortunately, Gold knew they had to work with the tools they were given.

As briefly and as clearly as he could, Gold suggested a few of Regina’s trigger points that might prove useful. The proverb always advised to let sleeping dogs lie, but when the bitch was trying to escape and cause more problems, Gold was more than happy to provide Moe French with a very pointed stick.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay,” French said, lowering his voice.

Gold closed his eyes. The question certainly wasn’t for him. “I’ll keep her safe,” he promised. “You do your best to piss that woman off to high heaven. If you manage to keep her behind bars, I will consider your loan paid in full.”

French was silent for a moment. “You get some rest,” he said. “I’ll try and keep my head down here, okay? Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

“And you,” Gold said quietly, “do everything I would.” He allowed himself a small, tight smile. “Good luck.”

He terminated the call before French could start waxing sentimental and set the phone down on the coffee table. He needed to think. He needed to focus. The trouble was that all he could think of was the girl upstairs, and the state she was probably working herself into.

He picked up his cane and made his way up the stairs.

For the first time since she had arrived back in his life, the door of the bedroom was closed, and he hesitated only a moment before tapping lightly on the wood. “Adele? Is it all right if I come in?”

There was a small sound he took as assent, and cautiously pushed the door open. He had only been in the room once, on the day he presented it to her, and he was both surprised and saddened that not a thing had changed. Everything was in exactly the same position as it had been when he first showed her into the room. Even the hairbrush on the dresser had been put back as if she had never touched it.

Adele was curled on the bed on her side, facing away from the door.

“Dear, are you all right?” It was trite and hollow, but he could think of nothing else to ask.

“No,” she whispered. 

He did not even stop to think, crossing the floor and sitting down on the edge of the bed. He reached out, then hesitated, hand hovering less than a palm’s breadth from her arm. His fingers curled in and he drew his hand back, uncertain if she would welcome a touch now.

“We’ll prove you innocent, dear,” he said, resting his hand on his leg. “Don’t worry.”

She shivered and the bed trembled beneath them both. “Don’t worry,” she echoed in a hoarse whisper. “Right. I’ll do that.”

“Adele,” he murmured, flinching at her tone. “I know it’s difficult.”

The bed squeaked softly as she rolled onto her back to look at him. He could feel the heat of her gaze, but couldn’t bear to look at her, not to see her red-eyed and tearful again. “You know?” she whispered. “What do you know?” She sat up, and from the corner of his eye, he could see her hand curling into the blanket, her knuckles bone-white. “Did she lock you up? Did she throw away the key? Did she make the world think you were crazy?”

He finally looked up at her, accepting the naked pain and distress on her face. No more lies, he told himself quietly. There had been too much of that already. 

“She tricked me into hurting you,” he said quietly. “I drove you away because of her. I hurt you because of her. And when I hoped I’d be able to find you and make things right, she told me your father had hurt you so badly that you killed yourself to escape it.”

Adele stared at him. She shook her head. “Bullshit.”

He flinched. “Adele, I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“I know there’s a lot of stuff I don’t remember,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion. “But I think I would remember you doing that.”

He reached out to her. “Dear, you wouldn’t,” he said.

She shied back from him. “I wouldn’t?” she said, suddenly, and for the first time, looking afraid of him. “Why? Why wouldn’t I remember?”

He lowered his hand. “I want to tell you the truth,” he said quietly. “I want you to know, but it’ll sound crazy.”

She laughed, sharp and shrill. “Like I don’t have enough of that.” She scrambled off the other side of the bed, standing beside it. “Tell me. Tell me, even if it is crazy.” Her voice was shaking. “How much worse can it get?”

He lowered his eyes for a moment, then looked up. “The town is cursed,” he said finally. “Regina was a witch in the land where we all come from. She wanted to destroy everything that anyone held dear. She cast a curse to do and sent us all to this world. No one remembers.”

“No one but you?” Adele wrapped her arms over her middle. “Convenient.”

“I made the curse for her,” he said quietly, simply. “I remember because I built it to be so. I made this world warp.”

“You?” 

He nodded, smoothing a crease in the bedding. “I was looking for something. Someone. In this world. I needed the curse to be cast.” He took a slow breath, forcing himself to be calm. “I thought you were gone. I thought it wouldn’t hurt you.”

She leaned back against the wall, staring at him. “I don’t know what’s worse,” she finally said. “That bullshit or that you think telling it to someone who is trying to convince herself that she really isn’t crazy is a good idea.”

“It’s the truth,” he said. “You’re not crazy.”

“No,” she said bitterly, “I’m cursed.”

“Adele…”

“Stop it,” she gritted out through clenched teeth. “Stop saying my name.”

Gold stood up, his leg twinging. He knew it wasn’t her. He knew it was the curse. He should have realised sooner. Anyone who might have had true love was always going to be pulled away from the one they loved. He was amazed it had taken so long. 

He looked across the bed at her, hands on his cane. “I promise you,” he said quietly, “I will find proof of all of Regina’s actions. We’ll clear your name, and you will be free to do whatever you choose.” He closed one hand tightly over the other to stop them shaking. “And I swear on everything I hold dear, I have never once lied to you.”

Her eyes were brimming with tears again, and that hurt more than anything else.

“I wanted to believe you,” she whispered.

“Wanted to?”

She covered her face with one hand and gestured shakily to the door.

Reluctantly, Gold turned and left the room.

He heard the sobs almost as soon as the door was closed, and he leaned heavily against the door frame. The look on her face, the tremor in her voice, the fact she was questioning her own sanity. Every bit of it was like acid dripping on his skin, burning away a little more of him, hurting more than he imagined it was possible to hurt.

He took a slow, deep breath. It did little to help, but it gave him a moment to focus.

He pushed himself off from the wall and made his way downstairs on legs that felt they were made of lead. He had to clear her name. He had to prove her sane and innocent of all crimes and charges. He wanted to beat Regina into a bloody pulp with his bare hands.

There were a number of books on law in his collection, and he had read them idly in the twenty-eight years that they had been trapped in Storybrooke. Now, though, there was information in them that he needed that could both exonerate Moe French and prove his daughter both innocent victim and sane. 

He was still poring over the books, a pad of notes at his right hand, when the telephone rang again. He picked it up with his left.

“Gold.”

“What the hell did you do?” The Sheriff sounded angry, but it didn’t sound like her genuine rage, more exhausted frustration. “Regina just went ballistic and went for French through the bars. He’s been taken to the hospital for stitches.”

Gold’s lips turned up. “What makes you think it was anything to do with me, dear?”

“You were the last person to speak to him, Gold. What the hell?”

“You wanted to keep Regina behind bars while we investigated, Sheriff,” he said quietly, setting down his pen. “I believe that has been accomplished. Further assault charges brought while in jail won’t help her case for bail.”

The Sheriff sighed. “No more stunts, Gold,” she said. “You want this done, we have to do it right, okay? Get your butt down the hospital now and give your client some advice, if you know what’s good for you.”

Gold set the telephone down. He knew he should tell Adele where he was going, but the knowledge that her father was in hospital would only upset her more. She already thought he was working on cracking her mind. The knowledge that he had asked her father to throw himself on the grenade of Regina’s temper wouldn’t help.

He wrote a short note, which he placed on the table at the foot of the stairs, informing her that he was going to see the Sheriff and her father, then walked out into the day.

He walked, ignoring his aching leg and his weariness. Sometimes, it helped to simply have a moment to think.

Despite the situation, when he reached the hospital, he found Moe French in surprisingly good spirits. It looked like a wildcat had hooked him across the face with its claws, but he was smiling nonetheless.

“Hey, Gold,” he said with a nod and wince.

Gold stared at the man. “I expected her to slap you,” he admitted.

“A slap wouldn’t have been enough,” French replied with a shrug. “Figured that letting a little blood out would make sure she was kept where she was.”

“Yes.” Gold nodded slowly. “Yes. Well done. Very bold.”

French looked at him. “How’s Addie holding up?”

Gold prided himself on his poker face. He didn’t show emotions. He seldom showed any weakness at all. And yet, now, he sat down heavily in the chair by Moe French’s bed, and didn’t care how exhausted he looked. “Not well,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t think that I helped matters when I explained how she and I knew each other.”

French’s eyes narrowed. “You know her? Apart from all this stuff?”

“Knew her,” Gold murmured. “Long ago.” He looked up at French. “Your daughter has a knack of making monsters love her.”

To his surprise, French snorted in half-hearted amusement. “You got that right,” he said. “I swear to god she brought home every feral cat and half-rabid dog in the neighbourhood. At least this time, it’s something that won’t piss on my carpet.”

Gold stared at him.

“Don’t give me that look, Gold,” French snorted. “Yeah, you’re an asshole to the nth degree, but you’re looking after my girl, and you’re watching my back and that’s a hell of a lot more than most people around here are doing.”

“You know,” Gold said wryly, “I’m starting to wonder if maybe you should have been in the asylum, rather than your daughter.”

French laughed, then winced again. “Yeah, not the first time I’ve heard that,” he agreed. He lifted one hand to touch his stitches gingerly. “You didn’t just come here to admire the Mayor’s handiwork, did you?”

Gold shook his head. “The Sheriff recommend we get your story straight,” he said. “Though whether she was talking about the Mayor-baiting or the armed-siege of the city hall, I’m not quite sure.”

“Sounds about right,” French agreed. “She never got to interviewing me yet. She’s been kind of busy.”

“About time she started earning her star,” Gold said with a rueful smile.

“Oh, you are not going to be happy you said that.” Both men stared at one another, then turned to the door at the Sheriff’s voice. She had her gun out by her side, and her expression was like granite. “We have a situation.”

“A situation?” Gold rose at once, his stomach twisting unpleasantly. “What kind?”

Emma looked at him. “How about like father, like daughter?” she said, and Gold’s heart felt like it had hit the floor. “Your girl just walked in here ten minutes ago, and headed for the basement with a gun, an orderly and a sledgehammer.”


	9. Chapter 9

"You sure this is a good idea?"

Gold looked at the Sheriff. They were standing at the door which led down into the basement. "If I don't, who will?" he said quietly. "I promised her I would take care of her. If that means facing her with a gun in her hand, then so be it."

She nodded. "We'll be right here," she said. "If you need help..."

Gold tapped his fingertips on the handle of the cane. "I won't," he said. 

Whatever happened, it was between him and Adele. Even if her father was waiting, cuffed to his bed. Even if the Sheriff was there. It didn't matter. Adele, Belle, was afraid, desperate. He could almost taste it in the air. She needed someone who would put themselves on the line for her, and now, he knew he was unafraid to be that person. No deals. No bartering. No price. 

He opened the door to the basement and stepped down onto the staircase.

The hall was dark, lit by two flickering strip-lights in the ceiling, and he could hear the crash of a sledgehammer striking a wall. As he descended, he saw Adele sitting in a tight huddle on top of one of the storage boxes. She had her arms wrapped around her legs, his Walther PPK gripped in her right hand. She must have found it in the dresser.

The orderly, a broad ox of a man, was beating at the walls, his eyes occasionally flicking to her where she was sitting.

"Adele," Gold said quietly.

She was on her feet in a heartbeat, the gun pointing at him. It was shaking, but she steadied it with her other hand. Her eyes were bloodshot, swollen. "Get out."

He shook his head. "I'm not going to do that," he said, pausing on the stairs, his hand on the rail. "I told you I would take care of you. I'm here to do that, and make sure you don't do something that'll ruin your life."

She laughed hysterically. "Life? What life? All I can really remember is this place. This place and your house."

He took another step down the stairs. 

"Don't!" she sobbed. "Don't come closer. I have to find it. I have to know."

"Know what, dear?" he asked, keeping his voice even and quiet. He could feel the flesh of his palm bruising around the cane, his knuckles aching from the tension. 

"That I'm not fucking crazy!" The muzzle of the gun levelled at his heart. "I swear I'll shoot you if you try and stop me."

"I'm not here to stop you," Gold said, descending another step. He looked past her at the orderly who had paused. "Keep going, boy. The lady gave you an instruction." He took another step, his leg twinging. "Adele, I know you aren't crazy. The Sheriff knows. Your father knows."

"Then why isn't there anything where I said it was?" she demanded, her voice cracking. "Why is everything turned upside down? Why can’t I remember?"

"Because you're being tricked," he said quietly, stepping down from the last step. "Manipulated."

Tears were rolling down her cheeks, thick and fast. "Says the man who cursed us all?" she whispered. "How can I believe you? How can I believe I'm not nuts, when you're talking about magic and curses and witches? How the hell am I meant to take it? Either you're nuts or I am or we both are."

"Or neither of us are," he said, taking another step towards her. "Adele, dear, I know it's difficult to believe me, but I will never harm you, I swear on my life. I believe you. I trust you." It took a breath, a little piece of courage he thought he lacked. "I love you."

She stared at him blankly. "I could kill you now," she said, her voice ragged. "One less confusion. One less thing to worry about."

He walked the short distance between them, until the muzzle of the gun was resting against his chest. "I know," he said quietly. "My life in your hands, dear." He rested both his hands on his cane, trying to still the tremor. "You have the power here, dear. You can choose what to do. End me or let me help you. You can still walk free, I promise. You need never see me again. All I want is for you to be free to be happy."

Tears dangled from Adele's lashes, dropping and rolling down her pale cheeks. "Why? Why do you care? Why do you want me to be happy? I don't even know who you are. I don't know anything about you."

He smiled sadly. "I know, dear," he said quietly, "but once, you did, and once, you made me want to be a better man." He lifted his hand and gently guided the muzzle up half an inch, to a point where any shot would be terminal. "I'm trying my best. Whether it's good enough..." He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. "Your hands, dear."

She was silent, but for the soft, stifled sobs that were racking her thin body.

Gold moved his hand to touch hers, his fingers barely skimming her knuckles. "Trust me," he said softly.

Her eyes rose to his, searching his face, and the gun dropped from her hand, clattering on the floor. She stepped forward, and he caught her in his arms, letting her cling onto him. His cane fell away, and he drew her close, his arms her shield.

"Hush, dear, hush," he whispered, stroking her hair with a trembling hand. "You'll be all right."

Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt, and she was crying hard and bitter, as if it would tear her apart.

A crash from the end of the hall made Gold look up sharply.

"Hey!" The orderly lowered the hammer. "There's something back here!"

"Fetch the Sheriff, dearie," Gold murmured, drawing Adele to one side. "Tell her we've found what we were looking for."

The lug looked at him, then nodded, lumbering up the stairs. 

Gold drew Adele down to sit on the supply crates. She was shivering, slightly, but constantly. He smoothed her hair, cradled her close, murmuring any kind of nonsense that might soothe her. He barely glanced up as Emma leapt down the stairs. She was still carrying her gun, but he shook his head, then nodded towards the crack that the orderly had opened in the wall. 

She slid her gun back into her holster and took out her torch as she approached the crack in the wall, shining the light into the breach. "Damn," she murmured. "That's what you call commitment to a cover up."

"Sheriff?" he asked quietly.

"They put up a whole new wall lining this hall," she said. "That's why we couldn't find any part that looked like it was new: the whole damn thing was." She glanced over at him. "Looks like they walled up the passage behind it as well."

"I have to see," Adele whispered, lifting her head from his shoulder. "Please."

Gold looked at her, then at Emma. "Sheriff?"

She looked at them both, then nodded. "We'll get a team down to open it safely," she said. She came back to them, crouching down and retrieving Gold's gun from the floor. "You know you shouldn't have done this, right?"

Adele nodded. "Felt like my sanity was breaking," she said in a whisper. "Didn't know how to prove it."She wiped one cheek then the other with the heel of her hand. "Sorry."

Emma reached up to pat her on the knee. "Don't worry," she said. "Howie said you were very polite about it, and he said he doesn't want to press charges." She straightened up and shoved Gold's gun into her belt. "I'll keep this for now, okay? You go up and see your dad, and I'll let you know when we can let you into the hall." Emma looked at Gold, nodding to the stairs. "You take her up. I'll keep an eye down here, make sure nothing ends up sealed up again."

He rose, only a little awkwardly without his cane. "Come on, dear," he murmured, keeping his arm around her shoulder. Her arm wrapped around his waist, clinging to him. She might not have realised, but he knew they were holding one another up, two parts of one whole. 

The hospital's corridors were unusually deserted, no doubt the Sheriff's doing, and Gold had never been more grateful for the woman as he led the still-trembling Adele to the private ward where her father was resting. French was off the bed the moment they entered the room, ignoring the cuff cutting into his wrist as he held out his arm to his daughter. "Addie."

"Papa." Adele stumbled from Gold's side, straight into her father's arms. He sat down on the edge of the bed, setting her beside him, wrapping her in as much of a hug as his shackled wrist would allow. She looked up, blinking, dazed. "Your face, papa?"

"Battle wounds, love," he said. "Worth every one to keep you safe." He leaned down to kiss her on the forehead. "You right?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "They found it," she whispered. "The room."

French looked at Gold, who was still standing close to the door. "They got her?"

Gold barely managed a smile, exhausted beyond the telling of it. "They have," he said. "There's no coming back from this."

"Make sure?" Adele asked, looking imploringly at Gold.

He didn't need to be told twice. If there had been one cover-up already, then she would be afraid there would be another until the truth was out. "I'll keep an eye on the Sheriff for you," he murmured. "You stay with your father."

Adele nodded gratefully. 

He closed the door quietly behind him and paused there, his hand resting on the door handle. It felt liberating to know that Regina's smoke and mirrors were losing their power. The curse was trembling around them, he could feel it. He had brought Adele back from the edge, fighting the impulse of the curse to break, ruin, and maim all that was between them. Things were stabilising, and true reality was taking a hold once more. 

He wondered how the world would turn, when the time came.

Gold smiled slightly.

It would be better.

He made his way back down to the basement. Emma was sitting on the box Adele had occupied moments before, one foot propped on the edge, and she looked up as he descended the stairs. 

"She okay?"

Gold hesitated, then shook his head. "It's going to take time," he said. "No charges?"

Emma's mouth turned up slightly at one side. "It didn't take much persuasion. Howie's a sweet guy and he could see she was upset. He wanted to keep her out of trouble. Even admitted he volunteered to help her, because he can't stand seeing a pretty girl cry."

“That’s…” Gold struggled to find a word. “Generous of him.”

“Don’t worry,” Emma said, pushing herself to her feet. “He also doesn’t want to be alone in a room with her.” She pulled his gun from her belt and held it out to him. “Incidentally, did you know it wasn’t loaded?”

Gold stared at her. “It wasn’t?”

“So, that’s a no, huh?” Emma’s lips twitched. 

“No,” he said, looking at the gun. She couldn’t have known. After all, what kind of man would keep his weapon of choice unarmed? He turned it over in his hand, then looked up at her. “You have someone coming in to clear a way through?”

“Construction team is on the way,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere until I see what’s on the other side.” She held up her phone. “Got my camera to log the evidence as we go through. I bet we can find the way out the other side as well.”

“She’ll show you her room,” he said. 

Emma looked at him thoughtfully. “I remember when you said you didn’t want her here.”

 

“I know,” he said, “but this isn’t about what I want. This is about what she needs. She was afraid that she was imagining it all, that she was as crazy as Regina tried to make her believe.” He glanced darkly at the break in the wall. “I know it will hurt her to see it, but she needs to, to acknowledge it and get some sort of closure.”

Emma patted him on the shoulder. “Look at you, with the personal growth,” she said with a teasing glint in her eye.

“Sheriff,” he said mildly, “as I said, this is nothing to do with me.”

“The hell it’s not,” she replied. “You and Regina and your merry dance. That’s what this is all about. And it’s stopping here, Gold. No more screwing around, okay?”

He inclined her head. “There’s nothing more for me to do,” he said. He sat down on one of the boxes she had vacated and rubbed his aching leg. “Regina is where she rightly belongs, and you are setting the world to rights.” His lips twitched. “Our hero.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Screw you, Gold,” she said, but she was almost smiling.

They were still there when the construction crew arrived. Emma supervised as they opened up the wall, revealing a new network of corridors. Gold watched in silence, wondering just what they had done to Adele while she was closed away in this dark and miserable little hole.

He went and fetched her the moment the walls were declared safe, and she returned with him, holding onto his hand as if it was the only thing tethering her sanity to her. 

“Don’t worry,” Sheriff Swan said, standing in the opening. “We’re right here with you.”

Adele nodded. She was trembling again, but she took the first step through the doorway, leading the way into the labyrinth, lit only by Emma’s flashlight. She hardly seemed to need the light, her steps unwavering until she reached a closed, locked door. There was a shutter in it, and heavy bolts.

“This,” she whispered.

Gold felt sick to the pit of his stomach. Even his dungeon, in the Enchanted Forest, had not been locked and bolted so. Emma reached for the hatch, but Adele caught her wrist. 

“No,” she said, her voice tight. “She touched it. She was the only one who looked.”

“Smart girl,” Gold said through a throat that felt tight with rage.

Adele lifted the end of her skirt and unlatched the door, careful to touch nothing, to leave no fingerprints. The door screamed, heavy and metal, something that should have kept a wild animal in, not a sane, wonderful girl. 

“This,” she said again, backing up until she collided with him. 

He put his hand comfortingly on her shoulder. “We’re here,” he said softly. “We can come in with you if you want to go in?”

“Don’t want,” she whispered. “Need.” 

She turned to look at him imploringly, and he nodded, letting her lead him into the room that had been her prison for goodness only knew how long. There was a gridded window which let in barely any light. The walls were panelled with padding, and there wasn’t even a bed to speak of, only a broad pad on a hard ledge. She had ended up here, closed away like a beast, because of him.

“Adele…” he said, his voice breaking. “Dear, I’m sorry.”

Wordlessly, she stepped closer to him and put her arms around him. 

In the darkness of a cold and miserable cell, he held her as he should have done so many years before, but this time, he wasn’t going to let her go.


	10. Chapter 10

Adele was asleep, deep and peaceful.

Gold was wholly unsurprised, after the events of the day before.

They had returned from the hospital late in the evening. She was in a daze, which was no small wonder, given that her sanity had been proven, returned to her by the Sheriff. She ate, drank, and when Gold led her to her bedroom, she curled unresisting under the blankets, a small, content smile on her face. 

He left her to sleep, and left the door ajar, but for the first time since her arrival, she slept without nightmares. He didn't hear a single sob in the night, and while she rested, he lay in his own bed, staring at the ceiling. Adele was free. Now, Belle was the only one who needed liberated, and yet, he could think of no way to do it.

The curse was crafted by his own hands, but it was out of his control.

He rose with the dawn, having barely slept. He paused by her door, looking in, and smiled at the sight of her. She was nestled against the pillows, her hair fanning around her. Gold drew the door over, then made his way down the stairs as quietly as he could.

It was raining outside, the world barely visible through the spattered glass. 

Gold crossed the livingroom floor to the safe, twisting the dial without even looking. The door opened and he reached in, withdrawing the one treasure he had left to remind him of Belle as she was. The cup was as fragile as it had ever been, and he traced the chip with his fingertip. 

It felt foolish, to cling to a broken relic of what he had believed lost, when the woman herself was in his house, in his care, once again. But she wasn't Belle. Even if she was becoming as brave, as determined and as strong, she was still Adele French.

As she said, she didn't know him.

He carried the cup to the kitchen and set it on the table, then put the kettle on to make tea. He never used the cup, for fear of further damage, but he gazed over at it as the kettle shrilled to a boil.

If only a curse was as easy to break as a cup. 

"G'morning."

He looked towards the door at Adele's sleepy voice, and drew a smile to his lips, though he wished he hadn't brought the cup out. She wouldn't know it, and that would make it all the more painful. "Good morning, Adele," he murmured. "Did you sleep well?"

She nodded, smiling shyly. "Very," she said. She hesitated, then all but ran around the counter and flung her arms around him, knocking him off balance. He dropped his cane to stabilise himself against the counter, his other arm going around her automatically. 

Gold looked down at her in surprise. "What's this in aid of, dearie?" he asked.

She looked up at him, all sleep-tousled, her eyes wide and bright. "Everything," she said.

He lifted his hand to brush his fingertips along her cheek, drawing loose curls back over her shoulder. "You know why I did," he said quietly. 

She was searching his face, and nodded. "You didn't ever lie, did you?" she asked in a whisper.

He shook his head. "Every word I've told you is the truth," he replied. "It may sound like a fairytale, but truth can be stranger than fiction."

She traced her fingertips down from his temple to his chin, the stubble rasping against them. "I like fairytales," she said softly. "It would be nice to be one." She smiled, bright and warming. "I almost feel like the captive Princess, trapped by the Evil Queen from your story, and saved by my brave Knight."

He almost laughed, without humour. "Dearie, I'm no knight in shining armour, and I'm certainly not brave."

She smiled quietly. "Knight in shining Armani, then," she said. She pressed her palm to his cheek, soft against his unshaven skin. "You're the bravest man I've ever met."

Gold closed his eyes, lowered his head. "Dear, you don't know what I've done."

"I do," she said softly, lifting his face gently with her hand. "I know you put yourself in front of a gun to save me from myself. I know that you're the better man you were trying so hard to be." Her thumb brushed along his cheekbone. "Whatever you've done in the past, you've made things right."

He stared at her in disbelief. "Adele..."

"Shush," she said, then rose on her toes and kissed him. 

The counter was pressing into his back, both of them leaning against it, and his arms were around her before he could stop them. He slid one hand up her back to tangle in her hair, and he breathed in the very taste of her as she kissed him again and again.

She was flushed, breathless, when she drew back. "Oh," she whispered, leaning against him. "Dizzy."

"A seat," he suggested, his own legs shivering beneath him.

With care, they negotiated the way over to the kitchen table, and he helped her sit before sinking into the adjacent seat. Her hand found his, her fingers drawing along his, and she breathed deeply through beautifully swollen lips. He found he couldn't help himself, and leaned closer to kiss her again. She laughed against his lips, her fingers carding through his hair, and when he drew back to give her a moment to breathe, she was smiling.

"Stay with me?" he asked, his heart thundering loudly, blood rushing in his ears, so loud he could barely make out his own voice. 

She gazed at him, her fingers stroking his cheek gently. "Don't you remember?" she whispered.

"Remember?" he asked, tilting his head to kiss her palm.

She smiled. "I will go with you," she breathed, "forever."

Gold jolted back, staring at her. "What?"

She didn't seem to be listening, instead looking at the cup on the table. She drew one hand away to pick it up, turning it this way and that. "You kept it?" She looked at him, her eyes brighter than they had been that night he sent her away. "All this time?"

Gold felt like he was standing on ice that was cracking. It was impossible. Completely impossible. 

"Belle?"

She smiled at him, much more strongly than Adele ever had. "So you do remember, Rumpelstiltskin."

"And you..." He shook his head, clasping her hand between his. "How long have... when did you... how?"

She set the cup down, wrapping her hands around his. "Just now," she said softly. 

He lifted her hands to kiss them, pressed his cheek to the back of her palm. It was only a kiss. It was a simple kiss. It was nothing they had not done before. And yet, it was enough to break the curse for her, to let her remember, to give her back her heart and mind. 

It was a kiss, but more, much more.

It was a kiss with all his hope and his love for her. It was a kiss with her new-found trust and her acceptance of him. It was filled with every little piece of what they had built up from the moment she had trapped him at his shop, layered on top of everything that had come before, and cemented with everything that had come after. 

She cupped his chin and leaned closer to kiss him again, gently. "True love's kiss," she reminded him with shining eyes, "can break any curse."

The End


End file.
